TABLE OF CONTENTS

Issue 95, April 2018

FROM THE EDITOR

Editorial: April 2018

SCIENCE FICTION

What Is Eve?
Will McIntosh

Webs
Mary Anne Mohanraj

The Elephants’ Crematorium
Timothy Mudie

Mozart on the Kalahari
Steven Barnes

FANTASY

The Old Women Who Were Skinned
Carmen Maria Machado

A Place Without Portals
Adam-Troy Castro

The Snow Train
Ken Liu

Nitrate Nocturnes
Ruth Joffre

NOVELLA

Lazy Dog Out
Suzanne Palmer

EXCERPTS

Bryan Camp | The City of Lost Fortunes
Bryan Camp

NONFICTION

Book Reviews: April 2018
Christie Yant

Media Review: April 2018
Carrie Vaughn and Christopher East

Interview: Angus McIntyre
Christian A. Coleman

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

Will McIntosh

Adam Troy-Castro

Timothy Mudie

Ruth Joffre

MISCELLANY

Coming Attractions

Stay Connected

Subscriptions and Ebooks

Support Us on Patreon or Drip, or How to Become a Dragonrider or Space Wizard

About the Lightspeed Team

Also Edited by John Joseph Adams

© 2018 Lightspeed Magazine

Cover by Elizabeth Leggett

www.lightspeedmagazine.com

Editorial: April 2018

John Joseph Adams | 1581 words

Welcome to issue ninety-five of Lightspeed!

Our cover art this month is from Elizabeth Leggett, illustrating an original science fiction short by Will McIntosh (“What is Eve?”). We also have new work from Timothy Mudie (“The Elephants’ Crematorium”), along with SF reprints by Steven Barnes (“Mozart on the Kalahari”) and Mary Anne Mohanraj (“Webs”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by Adam-Troy Castro (“A Place Without Portals”) and Ruth Joffre (“Nitrate Nocturnes”), and fantasy reprints by Carmen Maria Machado (“The Old Women Who Were Skinned”) and Ken Liu (“The Snow Train”).

All that, and of course we have our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with our book and media review columns. We also have a feature interview with Angus McIntyre.

For our ebook readers, we also have our usual ebook-exclusive novella reprint (“Lazy Dog Out,” by Suzanne Palmer), and an excerpt from Bryan Camp’s debut novel, The City of Lost Fortunes.

Awards News

Finalists for this year’s Nebula Award have been announced. Alas, Lightspeed was shutout this year—for the first time since we started publishing, I think! But many fine stories and authors were nominated, of course, which you can read about at nebulas.sfwa.org. The awards will be presented in Pittsburgh, PA at the 2018 SFWA Nebula Conference on May 19, 2018.

Hugo finalists have also been announced. Yours truly is once again a finalist for Best Editor, Short Form, and we’re pleased to see frequent Lightspeed cover artist Galen Dara is a finalist for Best Professional Artist. Otherwise, like the Nebulas, no finalists in the actual fiction categories, but again, many fine folks nominated on what looks like a really strong ballot, which you can find at thehugoawards.org. The awards will be presented in San Jose, CA at WorldCon 76 on August 19, 2018.

Congrats to all of the finalists!

John Joseph Adams Books News for April 2018

New recent acquisition to report:

Jack Skillingstead’s The Chaos Function, about a war reporter who is drawn into a mysterious world of shifting timelines, machines that control probability, apocalypses both nuclear and biological, and a secret society that has the power to shape history—and save the world. (Spring 2019)

News aside, here’s a quick rundown what to expect from John Joseph Adams Books in 2018:

On April 17, we’ll publish Bryan Camp’s The City of Lost Fortunes, about a magician with a talent for finding lost things who is forced into playing a high stakes game with the gods of New Orleans for the heart and soul of the city. Here’s some early buzz for the book:

“A deft and expansive fantasy imbued with real magic and wild plot turns.” —Kelly Link, author of Pulitzer Prize finalist Get in Trouble

“A phantasmagoric murder mystery that wails, chants, laments, and changes shape as audaciously as the mythical beings populating its narrative. [. . .] The engaging style, facility with folklore, and, above all, impassioned love for the city its characters call home keeps you enraptured by the book’s most chilling and outrageous plot twists.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“There isn’t a dull page as Jude determines who his real friends are. Anne Rice fans will enjoy this fresh view of supernatural life in New Orleans, while fans of Kim Harrison’s urban fantasy will have a new author to watch.” —Booklist (starred review)

“Camp’s fantasy reads like jazz, with multiple chaotic-seeming threads of deities, mortals, and destiny playing in harmony. This game of souls and fate is full of snarky dialogue, taut suspense, and characters whose glitter hides sharp fangs. [. . .] Any reader who likes fantasy with a dash of the bizarre will enjoy this trip to the Crescent City.” —Publishers Weekly

“Take a walk down wild card shark streets into a world of gods, lost souls, murder, and deep, dark magic. You might not come back from The City of Lost Fortunes, but you’ll enjoy the trip.” —Richard Kadrey, bestselling author of the Sandman Slim series

“In The City of Lost Fortunes, Bryan Camp delivers a high-octane tale of myth and magic, serving up the best of Neil Gaiman and Richard Kadrey. Here is New Orleans in all its gritty, grudging glory, the haunt of sinners and saints, gods and mischief-makers. Once you pay a visit, you won’t want to leave!” —Helen Marshall, World Fantasy Award-winning author of Gifts for the One Who Comes After

“Bryan Camp’s debut novel The City of Lost Fortunes is like a blessed stay in a city both distinctly familiar and wonderfully strange, with an old friend who knows just the right spots to take you to–not too touristy, and imbued with the weight of history and myth, populated by local characters you’ll never forget. You’ll leave sated with the sights and sounds of a New Orleans that is not quite the real city, but breathes like the real thing, a beautiful mimicry in prose that becomes its own version of reality in a way only a good story—or magic—can. You won’t regret the visit.” —Indra Das, author of The Devourers

On June 19, we’ll publish Todd McAulty’s The Robots of Gotham, a debut novel about a future where the world is on the brink of total subjugation by machine intelligences when a man stumbles on a sinister conspiracy to exterminate humanity and a group of human and machine misfits who might just be able to prevent it. Here’s what some early readers are saying about this one:

“The Robots of Gotham is a thrilling ride through a nuanced, post-singularity world populated by a frightening and fascinating array of smart machines. Read this and you’ll come to the same conclusion I did: The world belongs to robots, we’re just living in it.” —Daniel H. Wilson, bestselling author of Robopocalypse and The Clockwork Dynasty

“An epic novel of man vs. machine, full of action, political intrigue, and unexpected twists. Todd McAulty has given us a fresh, compelling take on life during a robot apocalypse.” —Jeff Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of Blame

“Todd McAulty has done the incredible. Delivered a rich and credible near-future world, where Thought Machines control, well, almost everything (and are themselves astonishingly diverse and cool), and used all this to create the most human SF story I’ve read in a very long time. I love everything about Robots of Gotham. I want more, McAulty. MORE!” —Julie E. Czerneda, author of The Clan Chronicles

“When the robot apocalypse comes, I hope it’s this much fun. Like The Martian and Ready Player One, Robots of Gotham is set in a high-tech near-future where something has gone terribly wrong, and it’s navigated by a hero who’s quirky, resourceful, and as likable as they come. Read it for the rock’em-sock’em-robot action—read it for the deft world-building with its detailed taxonomy of intelligent machines—read it for the sobering parallels to modern-day issues and threats. Or just read it because it’s a helluva good ride.” —Sharon Shinn, author of the Elemental Blessings series

“The Robots of Gotham is a crackling good adventure, stuffed with cool action sequences. It also features serious and intriguing speculation about the potential of Artificial Intelligence, for good and bad. And it’s an engaging read, with absorbing characters, and, of course, lots and lots of nifty robots.” —Rich Horton, editor of The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy

“If Johnny 5 had a baby with the Terminator, the result would be Robots of Gotham: a book that explores the consequences of world domination by our Robot Overlords. (And, lest we forget the badassiest of them, our Robot Overladies.) Drones, dinosaurs, and doggies—with a plague thrown in for good measure!—the barter is banter, and death is cheap. With man against machine, machine against machine, man against man, unlikely alliances must be forged across all species, rational or otherwise. For all its breakneck world-building, constant questing, and relentless wheeling and dealing, Robots of Gotham is deceptively deep-hearted: a novel about, of all things, friendship.” —C.S.E. Cooney, author of World Fantasy Award-winning Bone Swans: Stories

Further out in 2018, we’ll have The Wild Dead—Carrie Vaughn’s sequel to Bannerless—in July; Dale Bailey’s In the Night Wood in October; and then Molly Tanzer’s Creatures of Want and Ruin in November. We’ll provide more details about those as the publication dates draw nearer, but as always if you want more information about these or any other John Joseph Adams Books titles, just visit johnjosephadamsbooks.com.

That’s all the JJA Books news for now. More soon!

• • • •

Well, that’s all there is to report this month. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the issue!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Joseph Adams, in addition to serving as publisher and editor-in-chief of Lightspeed, is the editor of John Joseph Adams Books, the SF/Fantasy imprint from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. He is also the series editor of Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy, as well as the USA Today bestselling editor of many other anthologies, including The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination, Robot Uprisings, Dead Man’s Hand, Armored, Brave New Worlds, Wastelands, and The Living Dead. Recent projects include: Cosmic Powers, What the #@&% Is That?, Operation Arcana, Loosed Upon the World, Wastelands 2, Press Start to Play, and The Apocalypse Triptych: The End is Nigh, The End is Now, and The End Has Come. Called “the reigning king of the anthology world” by Barnes & Noble, John is a two-time winner of the Hugo Award (for which he has been a finalist eleven times) and is a seven-time World Fantasy Award finalist. John is also the editor and publisher of Nightmare Magazine and is a producer for Wired.com’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast. Find him on Twitter @johnjosephadams.

What Is Eve?

Will McIntosh | 10160 words

I’d never been on a quieter school bus. Kids were whispering to each other, looking scared as hell as the bus clipped stray branches from the endless forest pressing in on both sides of us.

“This isn’t even a two-way road,” I murmured to Flora, the girl sitting beside me. She was chubby and had braces.

“I know. Where is this school? My parents said this would be the greatest thing ever for my college applications, but I don’t know about this.”

My mom had said the same thing. College applications. We were in seventh grade, for Christ sake.

The road was a jet-black ribbon of blacktop that looked like it had been poured yesterday. The bus we were riding in, on the other hand, was old. My seat had a hole in the vinyl with foam bulging out of it.

“What do your parents do?” I asked. At this moment I really didn’t care what Flora’s parents did, but talking took the edge off my nerves.

“My mom works for the State Department. What about yours?”

“Mom works for the FDA. Dad is an FBI agent.” And they’d had an argument two days ago that I’d overheard from my room. Dad hadn’t wanted me to go. Mom had asked how they could refuse, given the stakes?

It was middle school. What stakes could there possibly be in middle school? Was she talking about my college applications six years from now? Is that what she considered high stakes?

The bus broke out of the trees so suddenly it startled me. We were in a wide, flat, open field with a couple dozen buildings in the center. Two-story red brick buildings were situated to create a town square feel. In the center was a one-story brown brick deal with evenly spaced windows all along the front that screamed Middle School. The whole place was surrounded by a high fence. Beyond the fence was nothing but forest.

“I’ve never been away from home without my parents.” Flora had that deer in the headlights look. I probably had it, too. I wiped my clammy palms on my pants.

“Except for, like, sleepovers with your friends, you mean?”

Flora gave me a solemn shake of her head and whispered, “I mean never.”

No sleepovers, ever? She didn’t seem like one of those kids who was too weird to make friends. Maybe her parents were religious fanatics or something.

“Look at that.” A kid was pointing over the rooftop of a three-story building to our left, where a cherry-red track snaked through the air. There was no mistaking what it was: a roller coaster. Not a big job like you’d find at Busch Gardens, more like something at a travelling carnival. Still, this place had a roller coaster? That, I hadn’t expected.

The bus squealed to a stop. The driver, a guy in his forties with a perfect haircut who looked nothing like a school bus driver, pointed. “Straight in those blue doors.”

A woman in a gray suit stood just outside the doors, which led into a building that looked like a town hall or something, with white pillars and concrete steps. We were herded into a room filled with rows of seats like in a movie theater. There was a packet on each seat.

A bright-eyed yet simultaneously exhausted-looking woman stood at a podium up front.

“Welcome to Sagan Middle School. My name is Ms. Spain.” She took a sip from a bottle of water. Her hair was tied back so tightly it tugged the skin on her cheeks and the corners of her eyes. “You’ve been chosen from thousands of students to take part in this unique program. What you learn here will change your lives, and the lives of countless others.”

I exchanged a look with Flora. Countless others? Yes, I’m sure we were going to change countless lives with our tireless pursuit of algebra.

“Why don’t we start with some of the basic rules?” Ms. Spain said. “Some of the rules will seem strange, but you must follow them if you want to complete this program successfully.”

The rules didn’t “seem strange”—they were flat-out bizarre. Mostly they had to do with the earbuds in our packets.

“From this moment on, you are to keep the earpiece in your left ear at all times—even when you’re sleeping.” Ms. Spain held up an earpiece so we could find ours in our packets. They were pea-sized and clear, and when you put them in your ear, they stuck down where you couldn’t see them. “Whenever a prompter says something to you through your earpiece, you are to immediately repeat it aloud.” She held up a finger. “Unless the first word is Direction or Do not repeat. A Direction is something you are to do, not say. If your prompter begins with Do not repeat, he or she has something to say to you. If it’s a question, answer out loud. Does everyone understand?”

Everyone nodded. No one was sticking the earpiece in their nose, or talking, or fidgeting in their seat. This was nothing like my school at home, which I already missed. I also missed my phone; I kept reaching for it. I wasn’t sure I could go three months without my phone without having a complete mental breakdown.

Ms. Spain told us we’d been handpicked because we were smart, mature students. Then she told us about a special classmate who wasn’t in the room, who we’d meet tomorrow.

“She looks different than you, or anyone you’ve ever met. She—” Ms. Spain trailed off, trying to find the right words. “I’ll be honest: You might find her frightening to look at. But it’s important you don’t stare. Treat her just like any other student. That’s what the earbuds are for. Your prompters will guide you.”

There was more, about schedules and mealtimes, when we’d get to call home, and all of the fun we were going to have, but it was hard to concentrate because the same words kept echoing in my head. You might find her frightening to look at.

What the hell did that mean? Was she a burn victim? Did she have that elephant man disease where parts of her were horribly swollen? And why was she so important that most of the rules were about her? I didn’t like this. From the looks on their faces, my new classmates didn’t, either.

• • • •

Breakfast was awesome. The cafeteria was like a restaurant, with waiters, and they had everything—pancakes, eggs any way you wanted them, French toast, Cocoa Puffs, frozen yogurt, anything you could think of.

Kids started to loosen up a little. The room hummed with conversations as we got to know each other, and the occasional laugh helped me relax. I sat with Flora and a guy named Glen Mitchell, a freckle-faced kid with long black hair.

“Have you heard anything through your earbud yet?” Glen asked as I spread butter on my stack of chocolate chip pancakes.

“Not a peep from mine,” Flora said. “This is weird. I don’t understand what they’re going to use them for. We’re in school, but adults are going to tell us what to say?”

“Maybe they can feed us answers on our tests,” Glen said.

A bell rang. We filed out toward the school across the center courtyard.

“What do you think is the deal with this special student?” I asked. “Her appearance might scare us? What does that mean?”

“Direction,” a man’s voice said through my earpiece. “Change the topic. Talk about something pleasant, how good breakfast was, or a movie you’ve seen.”

I could tell from Flora’s and Glen’s expressions that they’d just gotten their first earbud direction as well.

“Okay then,” Glen said, his tone leaking sarcasm. “How about those Packers?”

“Read any good books lately?” I said, grinning as we headed into the classroom. I slowed as I stepped through the doorway.

It was taking up two seats pushed together. It was black, and lumpy with all of these folds, and, oh God, were those her eyes or her ears? She had four legs and no feet and she was wearing a purple dress and weird round patent leather shoes and a bow in her hair, only it wasn’t hair, it was more like black spaghetti, and I couldn’t breathe.

The thing in the seats flexed, and suddenly it wasn’t lumpy anymore—it was hard, and sharp, with pointy barbs sticking out of it. It hissed like a giant punctured tire.

“Direction,” the man’s voice said through my earpiece. “Do not stare. Put a damned smile on your face and find your seat and look at the board.”

Panting, shaking, I looked at the name cards tented on the desks, looking for my name, and when I found it my insides felt like they were turning to water.

My seat was right next to the thing.

“Take a deep breath and sit down,” the earpiece voice said. “She won’t hurt you.”

Pressing my hands on passing desk tops to stay on my feet, I slid into my seat and leaned as far away from the thing as I could, the muscles in my neck so tight I heard a creak when I turned to look at the board.

A few kids gasped as they filed into the room, but I didn’t look—I kept my eyes on the board as I’d been instructed. That voice knew what was going on, and I didn’t, so I was going to do exactly what it said.

The teacher, a dark-haired woman, breezed into the room with a big smile on her face. She acted like there was nothing strange going on, welcomed us to the school, introduced herself as Ms. Bazzini, and started taking attendance. When she called my name, I said, “Here” in a tight squeak that barely made it out of my throat.

Then she called “Eve” and looked to my left, at the beast. Ms. Bazzini raised her eyebrows, encouraging “Eve.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the thing tentatively raise a fingerless hand. Ms. Bazzini beamed and nodded. Then she called the next name.

What was going on? What was this thing? I wanted so badly to bolt from my seat and run out past that fence and keep running until I was safe in my room, under my Boba Fett blanket. I made eye contact with Flora, who was leaning off the edge of her seat to be as far away from it as she could, even though she was on the other side of the room.

“Eyes front,” Earbud Guy said. I turned to face front and looked around for the camera this guy was using to see my every move. I couldn’t find it.

There was no math, no science. A ton of recent history, a little English, and then . . . Etiquette. Etiquette. There was no such class in school as Etiquette. We learned how to make polite conversation—how to keep the tone positive and constructive, how to find something to compliment about the other person. Ms. Bazzini went on and on about the proper way to greet someone you’re meeting for the first time.

“Now I want you all to pair up and practice this,” Ms. Bazzini said.

My heart hammering, I turned and tapped the kid sitting to my left on the shoulder. “Want to be partners?” But Ms. Bazzini was going down the rows, pointing with forked fingers, calling out pairs of names, and as she came down my row I could see who those forked fingers were going to pair me with.

“Ben and Eve . . .”

My lips went numb. My fingertips, too. There was no way I could use them to shake this monster’s hand.

“Do not repeat,” Earbud Guy said. “Here we go, Ben. This may be hard to believe, but she’s as nervous as you are. Stand up and face her.”

I didn’t want to—I so, so didn’t want to—but I did what the voice said, because that’s what you do, you do what adults tell you, especially in school.

The creature went on staring straight ahead.

“Hi, my name is Ben,” Earbud Guy said.

It took me a moment to remember I was supposed to repeat that. I opened my crater-dry mouth and said, “Hi, my name is Ben.”

The creature turned her head ever so slightly.

“This is a stupid exercise, isn’t it?” the voice prompted.

I repeated it.

The creature ignored me.

“It’s good to meet you anyway, Eve” the voice said. “Do not repeat. Now extend your hand and offer to shake.”

There was no way I was going to do that. I’d seen the way barbs could come stabbing out of this thing. The words I could say, though.

“It’s good to meet you anyway, Eve.”

I turned to sit.

“Now offer her your hand,” the voice nearly shouted. “Don’t let me down here, Ben. You’re sitting next to her for a reason. We’re counting on you.”

I hesitated. The voice was like an invisible hand, pushing me, turning me. I didn’t want to do this, I so didn’t want to, but I stuck out my trembling hand.

Eve looked at it, then away.

I went to drop my hand, but Earbud Guy jumped in. “Keep it there.”

So I stood there with my hand in the air, shaking and wobbling. I could see the other kids in the room watching while trying not to make it too obvious, probably getting directions from their earbud voices telling them not to stare.

Eve raised her hand, or hoof, or whatever the hell it was, without looking at me.

“Do not repeat. Yes. Good,” Earbud Guy shouted. “Her fingers are about four inches up her arm. See them?”

I nodded.

“Don’t nod. Grasp two of the fingers, very gently, and shake them once.”

I was breathing like I’d just run a mile as I grasped what looked like two black worms, shook the jiggly things for a split second, then brought my hand back and lunged into my seat.

“Do not repeat. Nice work, Ben. Nice, nice work.”

My heart slowed as relief washed over me. I’d survived.

But what did he mean, I was sitting next to her for a reason? What reason?

• • • •

The thing slept in our room.

We were all in bed when Ms. Spain led it to the empty bed halfway down the long dormitory room.

“Here you go, Eve. Is there anything you need?”

I kept my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. I was sure I was never going to sleep again, because if I did, I might dream of Eve’s fingers.

What the hell was going on? After school they’d taken us to the little amusement park, everything brand shining new. Then after dinner (with a menu, and waiters) there had been a party in a big, open hall, with music, make-your-own-sundaes, and freaking door prizes. Some kid named Marco won a two thousand dollar bike. Everybody got something decent. I won an Xbox, although my folks would confiscate it the moment I stepped in the door. No video games for me—they rotted your brain, didn’t build character or add to your résumé.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Flora whispered.

“Go,” I said.

Flora didn’t move. I couldn’t blame her—she’d have to walk past Eve. When I was a kid, I always felt like a hand or something might dart out from under the bed and grab my ankle when I got up to go to the bathroom in the dark. Here, the monster wasn’t under the bed—the monster was in the bed. Still, she couldn’t hold it all night.

“I shook her hand. Don’t worry.”

Flora swung back the blankets and sat up. She sat there for a long time before finally standing and padding toward the door.

As she approached Eve’s bed, Eve hissed. Even in the semi-darkness I could see her harden, the barbs popping up on her skin like weaponized goose bumps.

Flora squealed and raced back to her bed, yanking the blankets over her head.

How could we possibly sleep with a monster right there in the room with us? How could we even close our eyes? I lay staring at the stucco ceiling, wishing I was home in my own comfy bed.

“This is a test of some sort,” Glen whispered from the bed to my left.

“What do you mean?” I whispered back.

“It’s faked somehow. To test how we respond.”

“I promise you, she’s not fake.” I’d touched her. I would know.

“Been to the movies lately? You can create incredibly lifelike effects if you have the money.”

Could she be fake? The alternative was that she wasn’t, and that was just as unbelievable. I glanced at Eve, her huge body filling the whole bed. Was Glen thinking that was a guy inside a costume, the spines remote control?

• • • •

Glen fell into step beside me in the hallway. “So what does your prompter sound like?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. A man.” I was so tired. I’d finally dozed off at maybe four a.m., and had a nightmare and was awake by six.

“Old?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“Mine’s old—” Glen stopped talking just as my earbud guy started.

“That’s enough, Ben. Talk like you’re in school at home.”

For two weeks, they’d been cutting in to stop us from talking about what was going on, and it was getting old. And you couldn’t sneak off and talk in the bathroom, because wherever you were, they could hear you.

Glen and I exchanged a look. One of the good things about this place—besides the food and entertainment—was that I liked most of the other kids. They were all smart, gifted-program types, but it was more than that. Even in gifted programs there are mean kids, and lazy kids who cut corners and don’t finish their homework and still get by because they’re smart. None of those kids were here.

Unless you counted me. Sometimes I cut corners if I was sure I could do it and still get an A and keep my perfect grade point average. Last fall I had a 96 average in Biology going into the final, and when I went upstairs to study the night before, I calculated that I only needed a 71 to keep an A average. I could take the test in my sleep and get a 71, so I watched Pacific Rim instead. I got an 82 on the final and got my A.

I took my seat beside Eve. I was still afraid of her—we all were—but I wasn’t terrified any more.

“How you doing?” Earbud Guy said.

I turned to Eve. “How you doing?”

Every day my prompter made me try to strike up conversations with Eve, and every day she ignored me.

“You coming to the movie tonight?” he prompted. I repeated the words. Of course Eve would come to the movie. Eve always came to the movie, and sat by herself and hissed at anyone who wandered too close. Eve loved movies, and ice cream, and rides, and I was beginning to suspect that’s why those things were here. Everything revolved around Eve. I knew we were here because of her, but I had no idea why.

We started with freaking etiquette. Today it was how to negotiate politely yet firmly. I appreciate you increasing your offer to ten dollars, but, gee, I really have to get fifteen. This would come in handy never.

“Come on, Eve, practice this one with me?” Ms. Bazzini stepped down the row in her sensible black shoes. “I’ll be the seller, you be the buyer. All right?” She squatted by Eve’s desk. “I know you can talk. Can’t—”

Ms. Bazzini let out a tight, muffled shriek and backed away from Eve holding her cheek. Droplets of blood squeezed between her fingers and rolled down her hand, down her forearm, forming a trickling stream. Eve was still hardened, barbed, and hissing. I hadn’t seen what she’d done—it had been too quick.

When Eve opened her mouth, I almost fell out of my seat. “I can talk. Don’t tell me when.” Her voice was wet and hissing. It made me want to piss my pants.

Ms. Spain stepped into the room, looking in charge, and even more exhausted than the last time I’d seen her. A nurse in a white uniform was on her heels to whisk Ms. Bazzini away.

I was expecting Ms. Spain to say something about what had just happened—I think everyone was—but she just picked up where Ms. Bazzini had left off. Except she didn’t even look in Eve’s direction.

I didn’t look in Eve’s direction, either. Instead, I exchanged a look with Glen, then Flora. Enough was enough—I wanted to go home. If my parents knew what was happening here, if they knew that one of my classmates was a dangerous, psychotic monster, they’d be pounding on that gate.

At least, I thought they would. They’d had that fight before I left. Had they been arguing because they knew this school was dangerous?

Either way, I needed to get out of here. This was insane. Why weren’t we all running for the door to get as far away from Eve as we could before she went completely psychotic and started tearing everyone apart? After seeing what she’d done to Ms. Bazzini, how fast she’d done it, I had no doubt she could kill us all if she decided to.

We sat obediently as Ms. Spain taught us the polite way to negotiate a deal. I wasn’t paying attention, though; I was planning my escape.

• • • •

Flora handed me a slip of paper as we rattled around a sharp curve on The Tornado.

Stow away in the back of the food truck?

I shook my head, jotted: They watch us every minute.

Glen nodded as he read what I’d written.

We couldn’t climb over that huge fence in the middle of the night, or stow away in the back of the truck that delivered fresh food every day. This wasn’t Mission: Impossible. We needed something realistic.

The train of coaster cars began its slow climb to the corkscrew plunge that gave The Tornado its name. We figured if there was one place they didn’t have cameras watching us, it was here. We were moving too fast.

Glen passed us a slip of paper. Pretend we’re sick?

Stomach pain, like we all had food poisoning or a virus? Only you almost always threw up when you had something contagious like that. It wasn’t like we’d all come down with appendicitis at the same time. For all we knew, they had their own hospital, and we’d all find ourselves undergoing invasive tests right here in Sagantown.

When I shook my head, Glen nodded immediately, like he’d already come to the same conclusion.

We reached the top of the hill. I felt that weightless butterfly feeling in my stomach as we plunged almost straight down, then hit the corkscrew and spun. I gripped the metal safety bar with both hands. Some of the kids in front of us had their hands in the air. Ooh, what brave warriors. What free spirits. Only, we all knew what we were: we were good kids, strivers, planners already thinking about our college applications . . .

“Wait—” The word got whipped away by the wind, drowned out by the roar of the roller coaster. I waited, jaw clenched, for the tornado to flatten out.

The train of cars slowed, jerked to a stop as we pulled into the station. We hopped out.

“Once more.” I raised my eyebrows to signal to Flora and Glen that we needed a little more private time. It would be our sixth consecutive ride on The Tornado, and my stomach was already queasy, but I also had an idea.

As we pulled out of the station and headed toward the first hill, I wrote frantically.

The only way to get out of here is to stop being the sort of kids that made them choose us in the first place. I underlined “first,” then handed what I’d written to Glen. He read it and passed it to Flora. They gave me blank, questioning looks.

Be bad. Stop obeying.

Flora’s eyes went wide, like I’d suggested we kill someone, or take drugs.

When we get to class tomorrow, follow my lead. My palm was sweaty, the pencil slippery as I wrote.

• • • •

“Do not repeat. Are you all right? Scratch your nose if you are, scratch your wrist if you’re not,” The prompter said in my ear.

I did nothing.

“Do not repeat. Ben, I know you’re scared, but believe me, we know what we’re doing. Now, turn toward Eve.”

Had Ms. Bazzini not known what she was doing? I guess no one bothered to give her an earbud so she could have an all-knowing infallible voice tell her not to piss off the monster in the room.

“Direction. Turn toward Eve,” the all-knowing infallible voice repeated. “Ask her if she wants to ride The Tornado with you, Glen, and Flora tonight.”

I did nothing.

“Do not repeat. Ben, please, don’t let me down. Don’t let us down. This is more important than you know.”

“No.” The kids all looked my way; Ms. Spain stopped talking. “I’m not saying it.” I was so nervous I thought I might vomit. I’d never, ever talked that way to an adult before.

“Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.” Earbud Guy sounded angry. “Say it, then get up and get your ass out of that room.”

My heart hammering, I took the earbud out of my ear and dropped it on the floor.

Everyone gaped at me like I’d just dropped my pants and took a big old stinky dump on my desk. Except Ms. Spain, who actually looked scared.

Then I realized why she looked scared. Eve was looking at me.

I glanced at her, then away.

“I like you,” Eve said.

Somehow that scared me more than if she’d said she hated me. I had to answer, though. If I ignored her she might get mad.

“Thanks.” I so wanted to run. “I like you, too.”

With that, Ms. Spain went on with her lesson, her voice shaking.

• • • •

“Benjamin.” Ms. Spain and a white-haired man dressed like a corporate CEO were waiting outside the classroom. I followed them out a side-door, across the soccer field we hadn’t set foot on yet, and into a white building I hadn’t really noticed before. They led me down a hallway that was so new you could still smell fresh paint and sawdust, into a nice office with wood trim, where a man with pocked skin and an army crewcut sat behind a desk.

Mr. Crewcut said his name was Colonel Winn. The old guy was Mr. Pierre.

“You mind telling us what’s going on?” Colonel Winn asked.

I cleared my throat. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.” I was truly surprised that I found the guts to say it, even if my voice shook. Damn, my mouth was dry.

He slapped a sheet of paper onto the desk. “Your parents agreed to very specific terms, and they are your legal guardians. Are those their signatures?” He pushed the paper closer. “Take a good look. Are they?”

I looked at the paper. “It looks like it. But they don’t know what’s going on here.”

“Yes, they do, Benjamin.” Ms. Spain’s tone was calmer and softer than Colonel Winn. I wondered if she was supposed to be playing the good cop.

“Did you see what happened to Ms. Bazzini?” I asked.

“Ms. Bazzini is fine,” Ms. Spain said.

“What about the next person who gets that thing angry? How do you know they’ll be okay? She likes me now.” I folded my arms across my chest.

“Eve is under control,” Colonel Winn said.

“What is she?”

No one answered.

Ms. Spain turned in her seat. “Benjamin, we can’t tell you much, but believe me when I say, it’s very important that you help us. You made an important breakthrough in there just now, even if it wasn’t according to plan. If you keep it up, everyone up to the President of the United States is going to want to shake your hand.” She reached over and squeezed my knee. “Please. Be the boy we know you are.”

“We’re not asking you to wear the earbud,” Colonel Winn said. “Eve likes you because you tossed it away, so we’ll run with that, maybe have some of your classmates pull them as well. Use your own words to try to get Eve to talk. Encourage her to get to know your friends. Show her what it’s like to be a twelve-year-old.”

I considered. “Why can’t you tell me what she is?”

“We can’t tell you that,” the colonel replied.

“You can’t tell me why you can’t tell me?”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to shake the President’s hand, or more likely have him at my funeral. I wanted to go home and binge-watch Annoying Orange.

Except my parents wanted me here, and if Ms. Spain was telling the truth, they knew exactly what that meant.

• • • •

The movie that night was Star Wars, Episode IX: Battle of the Jedi, which wasn’t going to be released in theaters for another month. These people had pull, that was for sure. I took my usual seat in the back row of the small theater with Flora and Glen.

Eve appeared from out of the breezeway. Instead of heading to her usual spot in the front, she paused.

She began climbing the steps.

“Oh, God. Oh, no,” Flora moaned through clenched teeth.

Eve took the two seats beside me, and, munching popcorn from a plastic tub, looked me over.

Why had I tossed my earbud away? Suddenly I wanted an adult telling me what to say, because I had no idea.

I swallowed. This was getting weird, with Eve staring at me, everyone else watching while trying to pretend they weren’t, the entire theater deadly quiet.

“Have you seen any of the other Star Wars movies?” I asked, my voice an octave higher than usual.

“No.” Her voice was hissing and watery.

“They’re good. Really good.” My mouth was so dry my upper lip was sticking to my front teeth as I spoke.

“They think I’m stupid.”

A jolt of electric panic ran right down to my toes. I wanted to stick to small talk, watch the movie, then sprint to my bed and hide under the blankets for a week.

“The people talking to us in our earbuds, you mean?”

“All of them.”

I nodded. I didn’t know where to go from there. I gave Flora and Glen a look—Help me out here. Glen looked down. Flora just went on staring. The deer in the headlights was back. Why weren’t their prompters feeding them lines? I was dying, here. One wrong word and Eve would turn hard and spiny and slash me.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Eve asked.

“No. You don’t know either?”

“No.”

“Where were you before this?” Glen asked.

“Another school. Alone with the teachers. Before that, the lab. Machines. Blood tests. No windows. There were five of us.”

“What about before that?” I didn’t want to come right out and ask, What are you?

“That’s all. The lab.”

In the cracks of time we’d had to speculate before our prompters shut down the conversation, we’d pretty much agreed Eve was an alien who’d crashed in a UFO and was taken to Area 51. It seemed like if she’d crashed in a UFO, she’d have remembered that, so evidently we were wrong.

The movie started. We stopped talking and watched. I was nervous, sitting next to Eve, but, I have to admit, also a little excited. She went through her popcorn in five minutes, raised the empty tub. A guy in a red theater uniform ran to get her more.

• • • •

After the movie, we went for ice cream. Flora slowly rediscovered that she could speak as the four of us sat in the ice cream shop working on ridiculously huge sundaes. The kids at the other tables snuck glances our way. My palms and armpits were sweating like mad, but suddenly we were friends with a monster, and that was weirdly cool.

“What happened to the other four . . . people in the lab?” Glen asked.

Eve studied Glen. I still couldn’t figure out if the two holes in her face with swirls of skin around them were eyes or ears. They looked more like ears. “Did they tell you to ask that?” There was a not so subtle threat in her hissing, warbling voice.

“No. I was just wondering.”

“Ditch your earbud,” I said. It felt good, to be the bad boy of the class. I’d never been the bad boy before. “What are they going to do? Nothing happened to me.”

Glen took the earbud out and went to put it in his pocket.

I grabbed his hand. “No. Chuck it.”

Glen hesitated for a moment, then chucked the earbud. It bounced off the storefront window. “What about Flora?”

I nudged Flora’s elbow with mine. “You, too.”

Glen let out a nervous laugh as Flora dropped hers on the floor.

Eve seemed satisfied. “One of the others disappeared a few years ago. Two were bad. Mean. They were kept separate from us.”

They were mean? If Eve was the nice one, I didn’t want to meet the mean ones. Were they genetic experiments? Why would they be putting on this whole middle school thing for a genetic experiment?

Eve leaned in toward the center of the table and lowered her voice. “Do you know what I am?” She sounded angry. Just about everything she said came out sounding angry.

“We don’t know. They must know, though. When they pulled me into the office, they wouldn’t tell me.”

At the table next to ours, Marshall Jones and Grace Krivitzky took out their earbuds and set them on the table. All of the kids were taking them out.

“What’s going on?” I asked Grace.

She shrugged. “The prompters told us to take them out.”

“Fine. Now they can’t tell us what we can and can’t talk about,” I said.

“They’re still listening,” Glen said. “You know they are.”

“So let them listen.”

So we talked. Only, Eve was right there, and most of the kids were scared to talk directly to her, or even talk about her, and Eve didn’t speak at all, so it was a halting, roundabout conversation.

“We’re being treated like we’re in prison. There are fences all around us,” I said after a while. “We have a right to know what’s going on. So does Eve.”

“So go tell them that,” Grace Krivitzky said.

“Maybe I will.”

Grace rolled her eyes at me. “You’re twelve. You don’t get to decide that. None of us do. They must have a good reason for not telling us what’s going on, or they’d tell us.”

Before Ms. Bazzini got hurt, I believed that. Now I wasn’t so sure. Dad, with his tattoos hidden under white button-down shirts and his death metal CDs, hadn’t wanted me to come here. Straight-laced Mom with her Blind Melon albums had.

“I mean, what are you going to do?” Grace went on.

“There are soldiers with automatic rifles patrolling the woods,” Marshall Jones said. He had a spot of chocolate ice cream on one side of his mouth. “I saw them. This is serious government stuff. They know what they’re doing. We shouldn’t mess things up.”

“Things are already messed up.” Eve’s body got just a little sharper, a little harder.

Marshall swallowed, hard, and shrank into his chair.

“I don’t want to go back to the lab. They won’t tell me what happened to my friend Adam. I think they killed him.”

You could almost hear the ice cream melting, it was so quiet.

“We should do something,” I said.

“But what?” Flora didn’t say it, but it was in the tone in her voice: We’re only twelve. What can we do?

We could continue with the original plan. We could be bad. They’d handpicked a bunch of kids who would obey their rules. We could stop being those kids.

“What if we stage a protest?” I asked.

“You mean, like, carry signs in front of that town hall building?” Flora gave me a sour look.

“No.” Spines popped out all over Eve as she stood. She grabbed her dish, towering over the rest of us, and dumped her sundae onto the floor. “Like this.”

My heart racing, I swept my sundae from the table; the bowl clattered across the black and white linoleum floor, spewing melted ice cream and fudge sauce.

I looked at the ice cream server, watching from behind his counter. He wasn’t lifting a finger to stop us.

Grace Krivitzky and most of the other kids headed for the door. Either they didn’t want to get in trouble, or they were afraid Eve was going to hurt them. Or both. But Flora, Glen, and two other brave souls stayed. When all of our ice cream was on the floor, I vaulted the counter, where tubs in thirty flavors waited. The server watched, arms crossed, as I dug out a snowball-sized dollop of peanut butter fudge ripple with my bare hand and threw it at Glen. I nailed him in the back.

Eve followed me behind the counter. She pulled out the entire tub of black raspberry and hurled it at the wall, shrieking in rage. The cardboard tub split, squirting purple ice cream in all directions.

Flora retrieved a double-handful of black raspberry from the floor and dumped it over another girl’s head. The girl squealed with laughter and went to get some to retaliate with.

Show her what it’s like to be a twelve-year-old kid, the colonel had told me. This was what it was like. What it should be like, anyway. Being crazy, making a mess, laughing till your stomach hurt. Only, until now, we hadn’t really know what it was like, because we were the good kids, working our asses off with an eye toward college.

Eve jettisoned tub after tub. She was fully barbed, her skin reflecting the light like polished stone, and she wasn’t laughing, she was in a rage. Maybe she couldn’t laugh, or didn’t know how. When she was finished with the tubs, she went after the machinery, smashing it flat with hard fists, then swept glasses, steel milkshake shakers, boxes of napkins off the shelves. It was like she had an on/off switch, and it had been switched to on. I had a feeling if someone accidentally got in her way right now, they might get hurt. Bad.

We followed Eve to our classroom and wrecked that, too. Part of me was nervous as hell, sure I was going to end up in jail for this, or that Eve was suddenly going to turn on us when there was nothing left to smash, but it also felt good.

There wasn’t an adult in sight, and if there really were soldiers in the woods, they stayed there while Eve threw desks through windows.

• • • •

First thing in the morning, they led me back to the office.

“Tone it down.” Colonel Winn had missed a spot shaving. “We don’t want her angry.”

“How are we supposed to know that? You won’t tell us what’s going on.”

“You’re supposed to be wearing an earbud, so a qualified adult who does know what’s going on can guide you, but that cat’s out of the bag.”

Looking at this guy who’d missed a huge spot shaving—not a couple of whiskers, but a huge patch on his jaw—it suddenly hit me: These people didn’t know what the hell they were doing. Earbuds? All that had done was piss Eve off, and they hadn’t anticipated that because they had no idea what they were doing. We got Eve better than they did. We got that Eve had a finely tuned bullshit detector, and when you set it off, she got pissed. Pissed enough to rip a hole in your face.

“So how was that earbud thing working for you?” I asked.

Mr. Pierre, who hadn’t said one word the last time they brought me into this glorified principal’s office, cleared his throat. “He’s right. It just antagonized her.”

“Well, what were we supposed to do, just cut a bunch of kids loose and hope for the best?” Colonel Winn snapped. It was hard to miss the tension in the room; these people were panicked.

“If you told us what was going on, maybe we could help.”

No one answered. Colonel Winn glared down at the carpet.

Finally, Ms. Spain said, “He’s our best chance. He’s the only one she trusts. Maybe if he trusted us, we’d get somewhere.”

“It’s two to one,” Mr. Pierre said to the colonel. “Three to one.” He gestured at me.

“This isn’t a democracy.” Colonel Winn’s cheeks were crimson.

Ms. Spain leaned forward in her chair. “Colonel, unless you have an idea we haven’t heard yet, we’re just about out of ideas, and we are most definitely out of time.” She gestured at me. “This definitely isn’t the boy we thought we were recruiting, but he’s what we’ve got. If you don’t tell him, I will, and if we survive this mess, you can court-martial me.”

Colonel Winn looked up at me. He didn’t look happy. “You are not to tell your friends, you are not to tell Eve. Eve isn’t ready to know the truth yet.”

I nodded.

“Do you know what SETI is?”

“Sure, Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. Big satellites listening for radio transmissions from aliens. Eve is an alien. That’s what we all suspected.”

“Except she’s not. She was born on Earth.” The colonel’s nose was wrinkled, as if telling me this was leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “Sixteen years ago, SETI recovered a message. A very, very long message. It turned out to be a genome.”

I waited for him to ask if I knew what a genome was. I did. It was kind of a map of the genes that made living things what they were. And now I also knew what Eve was. They’d built her by following the genome, like a cookbook.

Holy crap.

“We sent a human genome in reply. That seemed to be what they wanted. Then we created Eve and four others, to learn about the aliens.”

It was hard to think about, because not only was it terrifying, but my mind kept slipping off it, thinking of it like it was a movie, or a dream, because it just couldn’t be real. It was too big to be real.

“What happened to Adam?”

The colonel’s scowl deepened. “That’s not important right now.”

“It sure is to Eve.”

“Just shut up and listen. We are in a very dangerous situation.” He waited a beat, eyes burning into me, before continuing. “There was a second layer of the aliens’ transmission that we thought was just background noise. Except it wasn’t. It was further instructions. The aliens who sent out the genome—the Alioth is what we call them—are coming. They’re sending an emissary.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You’re a smart kid. Do you want to guess what the emissary looks like?”

“What?” What it looks like? I didn’t get what he was asking.

Aliens. Deep down I guess I’d believed this was a put-on of some kind, like Glen had suggested.

“He looks like us,” Colonel Winn said.

I still wasn’t following. Why would the emissary look like us? Suddenly I didn’t like how scared these people looked. Underneath their grown-up, in-charge air, they were wet-your-pants terrified.

Mr. Pierre scooted his chair closer to mine. “Benjamin, they’re waiting for our emissary, and they’re getting angry.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “They’re waiting for Eve. Eve has to be our emissary, and if she doesn’t come, or they realize we didn’t treat her well, they’re going to come back with an army.”

“You mean, an invasion?”

Nobody answered, but their faces told me everything I needed to know, and scared the crap out of me.

“We were supposed to raise Eve as one of our own.” Ms. Spain let out a long, angry sigh. “That’s how the Alioth do this—each emissary looks like the beings they’re greeting. It’s a sign of respect, that you would accept this other species and raise one of their kind as your own. Only we treated them like lab rats. And now we have to try to undo all of the damage done to Eve, and we don’t have time.”

I threw my hands in the air. “Then why the hell is she with us?” Were these people crazy? Everything depended on Eve, and they had her watching Star Wars and eating ice cream with a bunch of twelve-year-olds? Yes, fine, smart twelve-year-olds, but we were still just kids.

“We’ve tried everything else,” Ms. McNulty said. “Eve won’t cooperate with us. She’s angry about Adam—”

“Where is Adam?” I interrupted.

“Adam was dissected.” The colonel said it like he was describing what he’d had for breakfast. “As for why she’s with you, that was Pierre’s idea.” From his tone it was clear he didn’t think much of the idea. He gestured at Pierre. “Go ahead. Tell him.”

Pierre nodded. “I know you’re a smart kid, Benjamin. Do you know much about psychology?”

I shrugged. “I never had a class in it or anything.”

“Have you ever heard of Harry Harlow’s monkeys?”

It sounded like a rock group. I shook my head.

“Harry Harlow was a psychologist who separated a group of monkeys from their mothers as soon as they were born. He put them in a cage with two figures: One was made from wire and gave milk, the other was made of soft cloth and didn’t. He wanted to see which figure the monkeys bonded with—the one that fed them, or the one that was warm and comforting.” He waved his hand. “It turned out they stayed with the cloth mother, but that wasn’t the important finding. Growing up isolated and emotionally abused damaged those monkeys terribly. When they grew up, they killed their own babies as soon as they were born, and attacked any monkey that approached them.” Pierre wrapped his arms around his head and looked at the floor. “They cowered all day long, trying to block out the world. And nothing the psychologists tried could undo the damage.” He let his arms drop and raised a finger. “Until they hit on a solution. If they put these broken adult monkeys in with adolescent monkeys, somehow the adolescents were able to help them. Their best guess was the adolescent monkeys were just discovering who they were, and learning how to relate to other monkeys. They could lead the broken monkeys on this journey with them, and teach them how to act like monkeys.”

I had no idea what to say. Monkeys? It worked with monkeys, so they figured it would work with an alien?

And yet, it made a weird kind of sense. Eve was never going to feel better sitting around with these people, and she was still a kid. As weird and alien as she was, it was still obvious she was a kid.

“We handpicked adolescents who are bright, reliable, and emotionally stable,” Mr. Pierre said.

“And then you gave us earbuds and told us what to say.”

“We needed to steer things in the right direction, and make sure you didn’t say or do anything to make matters worse.” Mr. Pierre closed his mouth, then, like he’d just remembered something, added, “Or get you hurt.”

Oh, right. That, too. How could my parents volunteer me to be a guinea pig in an experiment with a psychotic alien? I couldn’t believe it. I would never forgive them. I got it, there was a lot at stake, but I was twelve.

The colonel leaned back, clasped his hands across his stomach. “So now you know everything. Stop making us out to be the bad guys. We need Eve to help us, and she’s not going to if she hates us. Win her over, get her in tight with the other students, then convince her we’re all the good guys.”

“And Benjamin, she can’t know what’s going on yet,” Ms. Spain said. “If she thinks the only reason we’re treating her well is because we need her help, she’ll shut right down. We need to win her over, then ask for her help. Not the other way around.”

The colonel stood, pressed his knuckles to the desk. “Can we count on you, Ben?”

I hated being called Ben, and I couldn’t take my eyes off that big spot he’d missed shaving. And the fate of Earth was suddenly resting on my shoulders.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Colonel Winn nodded. “The earbuds are out, obviously, now that Eve is aware of us, but people will check in with you as often as possible to advise you.”

• • • •

When I got back to the dorm, Eve was waiting for me.

“What did they say to you?” she whispered.

“Just . . . to cut the crap. For us to stop wrecking the town.” The lie felt like a brick lodged in my stomach.

Eve looked at me, or listened to me, or whatever she did with those things on her face. She stayed perfectly still.

Then she pulled her feet into her bed and lay down.

Could she tell I was lying? This felt like a mistake. We should tell her the truth. If you needed someone’s help, you asked them, you didn’t manipulate them into helping you. I couldn’t understand how these people didn’t see that.

Maybe that why my parents agreed to send me.

I wanted to help them—to help us—but maybe the only way to help them was to do the exact opposite of what they’d just told me to do.

“Eve?” My heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I was going to have a heart attack. At twelve years old, I was going to drop dead of a coronary.

Eve sat up.

“They need you to save the world, but they’re afraid if they ask, you won’t do it, because they treated you like crap.”

Her barbs came out. It occurred to me that her barbs were like my racing heart. “Did they tell you what I am?”

The door burst open. Two soldiers rushed in. The one in front just kept coming, just bowled me right over and landed on top of me, her elbow in my gut.

I was gasping, wheezing, bolts of pain shooting through my stomach as the soldiers yanked me to my feet. Eve launched herself at the soldier who’d tackled me. The other soldier had a Taser in his hand. Sparks spit from it as Eve shuddered, then collapsed.

The soldiers grabbed me by the armpits and carried me out.

• • • •

I flicked my finger at one of the steel bars. They were square, not round like the bars I’d seen in a million movies, but they did the job just as well.

It was stupid, but more than anything I was worried my parents would be disappointed in me. They hadn’t sent me here because they didn’t love me. I could see that, now that I had time to think. If the aliens invaded, I was going to die anyway, so they hadn’t been risking my life by sending me. They’d let me go because they’d believed in me; they believed if any twelve-year-old could fix this mess, it was me.

And I’d blown it. They’d tased Eve because of me, and that was probably the last straw, even though I had no idea what was happening, because I’d been in the Sagan Middle School jail (they’d thought of everything!) for the past two days, and no one would tell me anything.

The outer door creaked open. I figured it was my lunch being delivered, until I caught a glimpse of Colonel Winn’s buzz-cut head.

He took a seat on the stool outside the cell, propped one foot on the bottom rungs. “You may have forced us into a war we can’t win. But, like you said, what the hell were we doing relying on a bunch of twelve-year-olds in the first place?”

I didn’t have an answer for him. I felt sick. I should have kept on doing what I’d always done: follow the rules.

The colonel unlocked my cell. “Eve won’t talk to anyone. She gave one of the teachers a nasty wound when he tried to get her to eat.”

“Are you sending me home?”

Colonel Winn folded his arms. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Screw everything up, then run home and hide under your bed and play with your Star Wars figures.” Winn swung the cell door open. “You’re the one person she might talk to. You opened your big mouth, now it’s all on your shoulders. Convince her we’re not the evil empire, that we had her best interests in mind, even in the lab.”

“Colonel Winn? In case you haven’t noticed, she can see through your crap. If I talk to her, I have to be straight with her.”

Colonel Winn gripped my shoulder and squeezed, hard. “If you cross me once more, I won’t send you home, I’ll send you to prison—real, grown-up prison—for the rest of your life. I can make that happen. And that’s just for appetizers. How would you like your picture on every TV, as the kid who betrayed the world?”

I stayed right where I was—just inside the open cell door. “If I’m not straight with her, she’ll shut me out. Or kill me.”

“Then figure out a way to be straight with her and still get her on our side,” he shouted. He was huffing through his nose like a winded horse. “The Alioth are here. They’re waiting. If she doesn’t greet them in the morning, we’re in trouble.” He swung the cell door open the last few inches. “Why am I threatening to put you in prison? We’ll all be dead by the end of the week.”

• • • •

Eve was in the dorm room, sitting propped in bed, her weird toeless feet bare. When she saw me, she straightened. “What happened?”

“Did you know we have our own little prison here?”

Her barbs appeared, but stayed just at the surface of her skin. “If I ever see another soldier, I’ll shred him. I could, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

We had a moment of awkward silence. Awkward to me, anyway. I had no idea what Eve was feeling.

“Tell me what I am.”

I told her everything they’d told me.

When I finished, Eve didn’t say anything, she just stared down at her blankets.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know,” I said.

“We never got to go outside. We never got to have any fun.” She looked up at me. “Did they tell you what happened to Adam?”

I’d been dreading that question. I was tempted to lie and say they didn’t tell me.

“You were right. They killed him.”

Eve got very still. Instead of her barbs coming out, they must have turned inward, because suddenly she was covered in little holes. “Then I won’t help them.”

“Eve, they’ll kill us all if you don’t. Not just them, everyone. Me.”

Without moving a muscle besides the ones that worked her mouth, Eve said, “Leave me alone.”

“I can’t. There’s no more time.” When she didn’t answer, I clasped my hands together like I was going to pray. Or beg. “Look, we’re not all assholes.” I pointed in the direction of the offices. “They’re assholes, but my mom and dad aren’t. My grandpa has long hair and dances to heavy metal music. You can meet him. You could stay with us if you want.”

“You’re saying that because you need me.”

“Hell yes, I need you. But I’m not saying it because I need you. You’re a friend. You’re becoming a friend, anyway, and when someone’s your friend you—“

“I loved him.”

I didn’t even see her move. The side of my face felt like it was on fire. Blood was pouring down my neck and onto my shirt, so she must have moved, but I hadn’t even seen it.

“I loved him, and they killed him. I wouldn’t help them for anything. Not for anything.” She glanced at me, seemed surprised that I was still there. “Leave me alone, or I’ll do much worse.”

I ran out of the room, my hand clutching my cut face. I wasn’t sure how bad it was. I didn’t want to know.

Ms. Spain and the colonel met me outside the room and walked me to the medical center. The doctor gave me a shot to numb my cheek, then gave me stitches. I couldn’t feel it, but I could hear the thread sliding through my skin.

“You did your best.” Ms. Spain patted my shoulder. “I’m not sure anyone could have done better, under the circumstances.”

“Who are they going to send in Eve’s place?” I asked.

“A diplomat. She’s been training just in case, since this started.”

The door burst open; Mr. Pierre stormed in. “We need Benjamin, right now. Eve wants him.”

The words gave me a jolt. I didn’t want to see her. Right now I didn’t want to be in the same state as Eve.

“I’m not finished stitching this wound,” the doctor said.

“Now. She wants to see him now.” Mr. Pierre wasn’t even trying to hide his panic. He was losing his grip in a hurry. I guess I couldn’t blame him.

“Tie it off. You can finish it later,” Colonel Winn told the doctor. She snatched a pair of scissors and cut the thread.

Mr. Pierre led me outside. Eve was on the sidewalk facing the door. Waiting for me.

I approached her cautiously, the side of my face still numb.

“I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. “I can’t blame you.”

“I hurt you for nothing. Just like they did to Adam.”

“I’m sorry about Adam.”

Eve moved a step closer; I took a half-step back.

“Would you still invite me to your house, after what I did?” she asked. Underneath the hissing, the weirdness of her voice, there was a pleading in her tone.

“If you promised you’d never do it again. Even if I say something stupid, or accidentally step on your foot.”

“I promise. Never again.”

I turned and looked behind me. Colonel Winn, Ms. Spain, and Mr. Pierre were all watching from the windows.

“I’ll do it for you. For Flora and Glen.”

It took me a second to grasp what Eve was saying. When I did, I let out a shriek of joy. “You will?”

“For you. Not for the assholes, just for you.”

I nodded wildly. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Eve.” Saying thank you didn’t seem like enough, though. “Can I hug you?”

“All right.” She sounded pleased. Excited, almost.

“Those spikes won’t pop out if I do, will they?”

“I promised.”

I took a step toward her. “Okay, then.” I wrapped my arms around her wide middle. She felt sort of mushy, and smelled like mud. The pucker spots appeared, like her spikes were turning inward. She pressed her strange arms to my back.

“I want you to be there when I do it. I don’t want to go alone, and I don’t want an asshole with me.”

“Deal. Then you can meet my mom and dad, and we can gorge on pizza and play games on my Xbox.” Because I was keeping the Xbox. I’d forgive them for sticking me in a school with a potentially homicidal alien, but I was keeping the Xbox. And Eve was coming home with me. Once we were finished saving each and everyone’s butts, I figured I’d be in a pretty sweet negotiating position.

©2018 by Will McIntosh. | Art © 2018 by Elizabeth Leggett.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Will McIntosh is a Hugo award winner and finalist for the Nebula and eleven other awards. His most recent novel is Burning Midnight (Penguin Random House). His previous book Defenders (Orbit Books) was optioned by Warner Brothers for a feature film, while Love Minus Eighty was named the best science fiction book of 2013 by the American Library Association. Along with six novels, Will has published around fifty short stories in Asimov’s Science Fiction (where he won Reader’s Awards in 2010 and 2013), Lightspeed, Science Fiction and Fantasy: Best of the Year, and elsewhere. Up next is Faller, a wild SF adventure novel to be published by Tor Books. Will lives in Williamsburg, Virginia with his wife Alison and twins Hannah and Miles. He left his position as a psychology professor in Southeast Georgia to write full time, and still teaches as an adjunct, at the College of William and Mary. Will is represented by Seth Fishman at The Gernert Company. Learn more at his website.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

Webs

Mary Anne Mohanraj | 4420 words

The suns were setting over Ariel’s cliffs, a great blaze of crimson and gold, when the first pounding came at Anna’s door. The stories from old Earth talked about the glories of their sunsets, but they were nothing, nothing, to the drama of Ariel’s twin suns. And yet, it wasn’t the sunsets that brought people to Ariel, that had brought her and her husband, all those years ago.

Bam-bam-bam! No polite neighbor knock, but desperation in the hammer of fist against metal. Anna had taken three steps across the small room, automatically, but now she hesitated. She’d been watching the news for hours, and though nothing dramatic had happened yet, the newscasters sounded tense. They spoke in short, clipped sentences, and their eyes flickered up and down and away, as if they were monitoring a dozen developing situations, just waiting for something to break. The air felt thick, almost too thick to breathe—it was a good flying night, the kind her husband had loved.

No one would be flying tonight; no one with any sense. They were all at home, with the doors locked. She was alone in her little house, had been for years. It wasn’t smart to open up to strangers.

“Anna, please!”

They weren’t strangers, of course. She sighed and touched the panel to signal the door. It slid open obediently, revealing the people standing outside. Javier and Katya, her next door neighbors, and little Sara. She had watched this child grow up.

“What do you want?” Her voice came out harsher than she intended it, and Sara shrank back. Anna hadn’t meant to frighten the girl, but it wasn’t surprising—she hadn’t really spoken to her in years. She tried to gentle her tone. “I was about to go to bed.”

Katya said, “We received word from friends; there’s going to be another riot. They say it’ll be bad, that they have lists of the gliders.”

Anna’s heartbeat sped up a little. “Medical records are confidential.”

Javier said, “The pro-human faction has been lobbying against the gliders, against us, for a long time. It just takes one person in the government willing to turn over the notes on which of us has had the genetic modifications. Not that it isn’t obvious to anyone with eyes.”

He gestured, and Anna’s eyes were drawn to the webbing between his fingers, the larger web between arm and side, only partly disguised by the cut of his shirt. With those webs, and the bones he’d had modified to be lighter, on a good night, Javier could cast himself off from the cliff tops of Ariel, catch air currents, and glide long and slow. As close as humans had come to true flight. Her husband had flown like that, so often.

“Not all modifications are so obvious,” Anna said. Most humans had some mods, of course—the basic contagious disease mods were government-provided and mandatory, and almost everyone who could afford it selected better health for their children, and often a little extra beauty or height, too. Some went further, with both visible and invisible mods, and until recently, most of galactic society had taken such modifications in stride. But there was a rising wave of “pure human” sentiment, and Ariel’s gliders had become one of the targets in recent months. Perhaps it was envy—those who were afraid to fly raging at those who had dared to give themselves wings. Perhaps it was something else—Anna wasn’t sure it mattered. What mattered was that people were dying. Three riots so far, each one escalating in scope. The last one had burned out a city block; hundreds of gliders had died.

Katya reached a hand out, upturned, pleading. “That’s why we’re here. For Sara. Can we talk?”

Anna wanted to slide the door shut in their faces. But the girl’s eyes were wide and scared. Sara was trying to be brave, but this wasn’t normal, and at seven, she was old enough to know that. She should be having dinner now, maybe watching a holo and getting ready for bed. Not banging on a neighbor’s door while the sky darkened overhead. Anna sighed. “Come in, then.”

• • • •

Anna had been standing on her back step, surveying the garden at her new house, when she’d first met Katya. She was trying to decide what to do with the plantings—the previous owner had had a fondness for bright colors, and the yard was a riot of reds and oranges and yellows. Earth plants adapted well to Ariel; blazing roses and tall sunflowers dominated the yard. It was all a bit intense for Anna, quite the change from the grey station corridors she’d lived in all her life. She was tempted to rip it all out and plant something blue and prickly instead. She’d need to do research; she’d never planted anything in her life.

“Hello!” The woman stood on the far side of the wooden fence that delineated their property line, waving a cheerful gloved hand, holding a gardening trowel. Anna felt a cautious surge of optimism. Perhaps this woman would be a friend. Perhaps she’d teach her how to keep plants alive.

“I’m Anna,” she said, walking across the grass, wondering if she were killing anything as she went. There were little flowers under her feet, small and fragile. She reached out a hand across the low fence, and the woman reached for her, and then laughed and paused, switching the trowel to her left hand, pulling off her muddy glove, revealing slender fingers and the webs between them. Anna forced herself to keep reaching out, to meet them, palm to palm, clasped together.

She should be used to the webbing by now, since her husband’s transition, but still, the gliders’ more obvious physical attributes sometimes repulsed her. Like bats, or frogs, the sorts of things that lived in dank places, musty and animalistic.

“Katya. And my husband is Javier, and the baby is Sara.” She gestured toward the back deck, and there the child was, a little bundle of brown cheeks and enormous eyes. Anna felt it, like a punch in the gut, the longing that rose up in a tidal wave. This was why they were here; this was the deal. A child for her, a child of her own body, and wings for her husband. She had left the safety of the station, the only world she had ever known, to come to this piece of dirt, this rock tethered to two flaming balls of gas.

“My husband is Piotr. We’ve recently moved to Ariel, and he’s just finished his transition. He’s wanted to be a glider for many years, but it took us a while to get the money together.” It cost so much more to make genetic modifications as an adult, and you were never sure it was going to work. But nothing in life was certain, and Piotr had wanted this so badly.

“Has he been out yet?”

“Just once, on the training cliff.” The look on his face, when he cast off, was just glorious enough to balance the fear churning in her gut.

Katya nodded. “He’ll be looking for teachers, then. We’d be happy to take him out on the cliffs; we just need to line up a babysitter.”

“I could watch her,” Anna offered, shyly.

“You don’t fly?”

Anna shook her head, more fiercely than was perhaps warranted. But the thought of it repulsed her—months of pain as the body rearranged itself, bones leaching away to be lighter, skin stretching. She’d watched Piotr, had supported her husband as best she could through the process. She couldn’t bear to go through it all herself. And maybe it was because she’d grown up on a station, in space—she’d spent her entire life flying. Anna felt no need to throw her physical body off a cliff.

“It’s not for me,” was all she said, in that first meeting, though in the following few years, she would discuss the subject, and so many more, with Katya, sometimes over that same fence, sometimes over a pot of tea, or a bundle of knitting or sewing. Little sweaters, tiny shirts. They could get whatever they needed extruded from central store, of course, but there was something special about the handmade. Babies wouldn’t appreciate it, but someday, they’d grow, and they’d know their mothers spent time and effort and love, making something beautiful to wrap their tender bodies in.

Katya asked, her tone hesitant, careful—“And you and your husband don’t have children?”

“Not yet.” And the two women smiled at each other, sharing the moment of something beginning. Friendship, perhaps. Hope.

• • • •

They’d sent Sara off to the kitchen table with some coloring sheets and markers, which would keep her reasonably distracted, for the space of a conversation. “Can we sleep here tonight?”

“I don’t have a guest room.” Katya knew that, of course.

“We don’t need much. Javier can go back, get some bedding from our place. We can set up in the basement.”

“It’s not finished; it’s damp down there.” Anna’s heart was racing, and her palms were sweaty; she wiped them, hard, against the sides of her slacks.

Katya’s careful calm cracked a little at that. “Do you think we care? Anna, please. It’s just for tonight. We’re leaving tomorrow—we’ve booked tickets out Rimward.”

“You can’t—the gravity will crush you.” Not literally, not right away, but with their lighter bones and adapted lungs, they’d struggle on a normal world. Every step would be like walking through sludge. “You can’t do that to Sara.”

“Maybe we can find jobs on one of the lower-gravity stations. It doesn’t matter; we can’t stay here. We can’t risk it, not with Sara. She doesn’t have any visible mods yet, but puberty is just a few years away. And we don’t think we have that long.”

“It’s not that bad.” Anna said it, knowing it wasn’t true. Piotr should be safe enough, as safe as he could be, on the other side of the planet, living in an all-glider community he’d joined after leaving her. But here, their city was mixed, and gliders wore cloaks in the streets now, in a futile attempt to disguise their webs.

“Easy for you to say!” Katya snapped.

She bit her lip. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea . . .” The wind gusted outside, rattling the windows in their frames.

“Anna. Anna, what have I ever done to you?” A world of hurt in those words, not just for tonight, but for the friendship broken, abandoned. It wasn’t Katya’s fault, of course; it wasn’t anybody’s fault. But sometimes, you needed someone to blame.

Anna was pregnant at Sara’s first birthday party. It was early days yet, but after a solid year of trying, she couldn’t help but tell her best friend. They’d blown up balloons, spread icing on cupcakes, making plans for when the girls (the fetus was female) would grow up together. Two years apart was a perfect spacing, they’d agreed—near enough to share closeness, far enough that they wouldn’t be competitive. When Anna lost the baby a few days later, Katya had gotten her drunk on homemade dandelion wine and the story of her own miscarriage, before Sara came along. A few days of sadness, and then Anna was past it, or mostly. Looking forward to the future.

By that point, Piotr and Javier had finally bonded as well—it had taken a while, but they’d discovered a shared love of twentieth-century Earth poetry, and would spend hours arguing over the relative merits of Fellner and Coviello while their wives blithely ignored them. Anna and Katya’s conversations veered wildly between the domestic and the technical; Anna’s field of engine design overlapped more than one might expect with Katya’s work in planetary ecology—the specifics were different, but there were patterns that correlated surprisingly well. And it was always good to have someone outside the field to bounce your more radical ideas off. Occasionally they’d invite others to their dinner parties, but most often they were a cozy fivesome, with Sara the star of the show.

It started falling apart when Sara was three—two more miscarriages by then, and the doctors were starting to say ominous things. No one ever promised you that you’d be able to carry a child to term. Anna knew that, of course she knew that. She’d signed every informed consent form they pushed in front of her, had known the odds. For enough money, they would retro-engineer an entire female body for her, make every trace of her original male form disappear. But the doctors, the gene techs, the medical establishment—they still hadn’t quite mastered the complexity of human conception and gestation. Even if you were born female, there were no guarantees.

You could throw as much money as you wanted at the problem—and Piotr and Anna had thrown all they had, to get the best doctors they could for her transition. She had loved him so much then—Piotr had fallen in love with what he’d thought was another man, with Matthew, but then kept loving the person inside the body, as he became she. Piotr had supported Anna wholeheartedly through the process, and then they’d sold their comfortable apartment, given up their prized central space on the station, moved to Ariel, so he could have his heart’s desire, too. Anna had made it through, all the way, or so she’d thought, and they had come here, to start a family the old-fashioned way. The doctors had said, Well, if it doesn’t work out, there are always other options. She hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to believe. The odds were in her favor; it would almost certainly work. And then it didn’t.

The fifth and final one was the worst—Anna had made it all the way to twenty-two weeks, had started to show, had even started wearing maternity clothes, a little appalled at her own daring, but happy, so happy. She had never managed to garden, and the backyard had turned into rather a mess, but they’d cut a gate in the fence, and Sara loved to run in, strong four-year-old legs churning, to play in Aunty Anna’s wild jungle. The child was there when it happened, and everyone else was out, so that Anna had to stifle the moans when the wracking cramps hit, the gush of fluids staining her pants, the chair, the deck beneath her. She shouted for Sara to stay outside, that she’d be back soon, and then staggered inside to lose her last child in blood and pain and misery. This one, she had even named. Too early, much too early, but she had dared to hope and been punished.

• • • •

She hadn’t been able to bear Sara’s presence after that—the families’ time together had quickly tapered off. Javier had added a latch to lock the gate, and dinners became separate affairs. But it wasn’t Katya’s fault. Anna bowed her head and gave in to the inevitable; decency would allow nothing else, no matter the risk. “You three take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Javier and Katya made only token protests—it would be better for Sara to sleep comfortably between her parents in a nice bed, rather than huddling in a dank basement. They took a hurried simple meal together, Anna only pretending to eat for the child’s sake, and then retired to the bedroom. Katya paused before closing the door, her face asking a question—did Anna want to talk, finally?

Anna knew she should reach out, should offer some apology for the silent years. Not an explanation—Katya would know why she’d pulled away. They were leaving, they’d be gone at the dawn light. Two years of silence and now a final chance to break it. But Anna turned away, and the door shut behind her, slow and certain, like the falling of a coffin lid.

• • • •

That was how her marriage had ended too, slow and certain, though she hadn’t seen it at first. It was tempting to blame the miscarriages, to say Piotr had left her for them, but the facts didn’t bear the weight of that conclusion.

“We can adopt, or use a surrogate. There are other options, Anna!” He didn’t start out yelling at her—the conversations had been quiet at first, supportive. But as the months and years rolled on, and their child receded further and further into the distance, Piotr began to crack, like an engine too long neglected. And he was right, but she couldn’t do it. Anna couldn’t give up on the dream, not yet.

So she became quieter and quieter, and he raged more and more. Until finally one day, Anna had said, “I just want some peace and quiet around here.”

“Fine. I can give you that, at least.” And he’d walked out the door, letting it slide closed behind him, and she could have wished for an old-fashioned door to bang shut. A marriage deserved that much punctuation. Even though he’d left empty-handed, Anna had known that Piotr wouldn’t be back. She’d punctiliously sold his things over the next month, calculated the worth of the house, transferred half of their net worth to his personal account; in return, he’d sent her a forwarding address for his mail.

• • • •

Anna stood in her kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee, staring out the window at the wildness of jungle-yard. It seemed like rain should fall, should curtain the darkness of this night, but the sky refused to break, to grant that release. Just the wind, even harder now, sending plastic pots skittering across the yard, tearing tender vines from their supports.

She’d said she’d sleep on the couch, but Anna had no intention of sleeping tonight. She doubted Katya and Javier were sleeping either, but they could monitor the net from the bedroom screens as well as she could out here. It was three hours past sunset when the thick tension erupted in what were at first isolated incidents of violence. It started at a shop that sold glider accessories, wings that some used to extend their strength and reach, though the purist gliders sneered at that. The windows were broken, the shop set aflame, and then the fire spread impossibly fast. Her stomach churned, watching the violence on the screens. The thugs dragged gliders from their homes, sliced the webbing and sliced their necks, too. One city block, then another, and the police kept showing up too late, always a step behind. The firefighters couldn’t keep up with the flames.

Anyone who grew up on a station had a justifiable terror of fire; fire suppression systems were some of the most critical, linked intimately with the essential air. Anna would have thought that fire would be less frightening on a planet’s surface, but no—it might not move quite as fast, but it came on, unstoppable, with the force of fear and rage behind it. Only a tenth or so of Ariel’s population were humod gliders; the rest had settled for other reasons—for jobs or family or had just been born and raised there. Three generations in was plenty of time for a planet’s worth of prejudices to grow and add fuel to the flames. Every human who felt life hadn’t given them all they wanted, all they needed, all they deserved, found a convenient target in the humods. The gliders were freaks, and selfish, too, diverting resources a young colony world could have used for planetary development to their own individual pleasures.

What would Anna do, if they ever came for her? It wasn’t likely. She’d lived as a woman for a decade now, indistinguishable from those born female. Even the failure of her reproductive organs wasn’t enough to give her away; women throughout history had endured their bodies’ betrayals in that regard. Only if they looked at the records would they know.

The gliders couldn’t go back. Their change was irreversible, at least to modern science—you could slash the webs, but the bones, once lightened, would not easily gain mass again. On the screen, she watched the carnage in the streets, coming closer with every hour—it was appallingly easy, it turned out, to snap a glider’s bones. Not quite the job for one person, but take two individuals of strong and passionate will, give each a firm grip and something to brace against and oh—you could practically hear the crack through the screen, through the roaring and the screams.

She could go back, at least in theory. That was in the consent forms, too, the ones that she had signed, when she was Matthew. Anna pulled a scarf from the wall hook, draped it around her chest, pulled it taut, flattening her breasts. Could she survive giving them up? They hadn’t been much use to her, in the end. She could slim her hips, grow a beard, slide her voice down a few registers. It hadn’t been so bad, living as Matthew; she could have lived the rest of her life as him, had a good marriage to Piotr, had a successful career. But that body had felt wrong, as if every breath, every step had subtly, disturbingly, gone awry.

Anna couldn’t go back, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t throw her neighbors out into the night either, to take their chances in the dark. The coffee cup was empty. She hung the scarf up again, tidily, and went to make another cup. Two more hours ’til morning. Despite the warmth of the cup in her hands, her fingers were cold, like ice.

• • • •

It was almost dawn when the second pounding came at her door. Anna walked from the kitchen down the hall, past the bedroom with its closed door and her neighbors undoubtedly awake on the other side of it, past her workroom and toilet and the dining room, finally emerging into the open front room—a walk she’d done a million times in seconds, but tonight it seemed to take forever, each step falling heavy and final. Oh, she loved this little house, this life, even if it hadn’t been everything she’d imagined. Even in its brokenness, it was hers, and Anna was not ready to let it go.

Bang bang bang—not a hand this time, something strong and metal and solid. Anna opened the door, unsure of her ability to act, but sure they would batter it down if she didn’t. A dozen people with weapons in hand—her poor door was nowhere near strong enough to bear that stress. They were wet; it had finally started raining, but just a drizzle. Not enough to put out the flames.

They muscled their way into the front room, pushing her back. “Show us your hands!”

Anna spread them out, mutely, spread her arms wide. Free of webbing, of any visible marker.

“Strip her!”

She should have been expecting this—some geneticists had been experimenting recently with true wings, springing from the bones of the spine. Anna tried to forestall them, reaching to remove her shirt, but before she could do more than get her fingers curled around the fabric, one of them was slamming her down, face flat against the entry table, tearing the back of her shirt open. Nothing to see, of course.

They let her up, and Anna clutched the remnants of her shirt to her chest at first—then let it drop to the floor, baring her breasts. If they were going to act like animals, let them see the results. She could feel blood trickling down the side of her cheek—she must have cut her face when she hit the table. Some had the grace to glance away, ashamed.

“Sorry, sorry, ma’am.”

Another growled, “Don’t apologize to her. No one home next door—I bet the humod-lover has them hidden here. Two gliders registered, fully certified.”

Oh. A burst of comprehension, like lightning cutting through the dullness of despair. Those were the lists they had. Not the full medical records—just the flight records. Anyone could jump off a cliff; no one would stop you. But if you wanted to train others, you needed to go through a program, be certified. Javier and Katya would be listed—but not Sara, not yet. No webs, no visible markers—unless they actually picked her up and felt the lightness of her, they’d have no way of knowing . . .

Before Anna could say or decide anything, her neighbors emerged from the darkness of the hallway, blinking into the light.

“Leave her alone,” Javier said gruffly. “We’re here. We made her hide us.”

Two adults—no child. Javier stared straight ahead, but Katya’s eyes locked on hers, begging for help. Anna stared straight back, desperate for their old communion again. Five years of friendship, two years of silence—were the connections still there? Each conversation a slender filament, binding the two of them together in what, it turned out, was still a perfect web of understanding when it counted. I will take care of her for you. Anna could see it in the minute relaxation, the shift in the set of Katya’s shoulders, as they grabbed her, pulled her with Javier out of the house, into the night. She had no power to save them; Anna fisted her hands at her sides, willing herself to hold together, just until the thugs were out the door.

One of the men stopped on the threshold, halfway in, halfway out. “Is there anyone else in the house?” His voice loud, demanding, sure in its righteousness.

Anna set her voice as steady as she could. “Just my daughter; she’s sleeping.”

He turned to another, the leader, perhaps. “Should we bring her out?”

The second man shrugged. “We’re not barbaric; we don’t visit the sins of the parent on the child. But give this traitor bitch something to remember us by.” And a weapon barrel slammed into Anna’s face, knocking her to the floor.

The door slid closed behind them, and outside, the screaming began, muffled only a little by walls and door. Oh, my friend. Anna’s chest ached, sharply, as if someone had reached in, grabbed it, yanked it out again. In the bedroom, Sara started crying: soft, but audible to the ears of a mother.

©2016 by Mary Anne Mohanraj. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary Anne Mohanraj wrote and edited Bodies in Motion (finalist for the Asian American Book Awards), The Stars Change (Lambda & Rainbow finalist), and eleven other titles. Mohanraj founded Strange Horizons and was Guest of Honor at WisCon 2010. She is Executive Director of the Speculative Literature Foundation, has taught at the Clarion SF/F workshop, and is Clinical Associate Professor of English at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Other recent publications include stories for George R.R. Martin’s Wild Cards series, chapters for Ellen Kushner’s Tremontaine at Serial Box, and stories at Clarkesworld, Asimov’s, and Lightspeed. Recent and forthcoming books include Survivor (a SF/F anthology, co-edited with JJ Pionke), Invisible 3 (co-edited with Jim C. Hines), and Perennial (a breast cancer memoir/romance).

The Elephants’ Crematorium

Timothy Mudie | 3900 words

Liyana had seen elephants form into protective circles when calves were threatened, but this was different. These days, animal behavior was all but impossible to predict, of course—prey turning to predator; trees turning to stone in moonlight—but this didn’t feel random. There was intent in the way the elephants moved. The seven of them—she counted three juvenile males, two juvenile females, and two adult females—plodded into a loose formation a dozen or so meters from where Liyana crouched in a blind nestled deep in a thick copse of thorny bushes. Moving in unison, the elephants faced inward, heads turning slightly, inspecting one another as if making sure they were all ready.

Lower back beginning to ache fiercely, sharp twinges shooting up her spine, Liyana wanted more than ever to shift position, to stand up and stretch. To pee, even though it seemed like she’d just done so moments ago. To wipe the sweat pooling in her lower back and between her breasts. Without speaking, she mouthed an apology to the baby inside her. Just a few more minutes.

The largest adult called, a low rumble that Liyana felt more than heard, her heart vibrating, pressure rising through the soles of her feet despite her thick boots. The rest joined in, a basso profundo chorus.

For almost a full minute, the elephants sang a low note that Liyana couldn’t help but think of as mournful, though she was always reluctant to anthropomorphize the animals she’d studied and protected. Abruptly the sound cut out, leaving behind an even deeper silence. One by one, like a string of firecrackers, the elephants burst into flames.

• • • •

Liyana gingerly lowered herself into the sagging remains of what had once been an overstuffed armchair in what had once been the lounge of what had once been the Amboseli Adventure Safari Lodge, where tourists had once paid extravagantly to live in comfort while pretending they were bush explorers, seeking lions and leopards and elephants. Sometimes, even though it had been years—seven as best Liyana’s people could tell—it still amazed her to think about how people used to live. At one time, someone had probably complained that the lounge was too cool from the air conditioning. Even with the windows long broken and a breeze riffling through the room, Liyana sweated through her clothes.

“I found out what’s happening to the elephants,” she said to James. She grimaced. “Sort of.”

“How are you feeling?” James asked. “You look pale.”

She tried to smile at him. Just like James to worry about her more than the elephants. Though she knew he’d never really love her, that he couldn’t, he did care. That was enough. “You’re not going to believe this—well, maybe you will, things are crazy—but the elephants seem to be spontaneously combusting.”

He ignored her. “I’m serious, Liyana. Are you okay?”

“Did you hear me? They’re practically exploding. Fire everywhere. I saw it myself.” When he leaned forward, an expression of concern on his face, she waved him off. “I’m fine. My back hurts from crouching in the blind so long. It’s nothing.”

He leaned back, but his brow remained furrowed. “Okay then. The elephants are spontaneously combusting. Is it just happening? Or are they inducing it somehow?”

“Why would they do it on purpose? And how?”

James shrugged. “Why does anything happen anymore? A week ago, I saw a pack of hyenas surround a zebra. The hyenas melted into some sort of amoeba and absorbed the zebra. When it was gone, they reformed and took off running like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“I guess it is, now.”

“My point is that the world is dangerous and unpredictable. You shouldn’t be trying to have a child at all, and you certainly shouldn’t be going out alone right now. Who knows how an animal would react if it could somehow tell you’re pregnant.”

“You’re sweet that you try to protect me,” Liyana said. “But I hate it.” She stood up. “Anyway, I’m going to lie down, but first I need to talk to—” Her voice snapped off into a sharp intake of breath as pain stabbed her stomach and she doubled over. In an instant, James was on his feet, his hands on her elbows. She couldn’t stay on her feet, so she let him guide her to the floor, first on her knees, but even that was too much, and she curled onto her side.

“Stay here, stay here,” he said, looking around frantically, though there was no one in the lounge. “I’m getting Charlotte.” For a moment, Liyana thought he would kiss her as he leaned forward, but he turned away and sprinted for the door, shouting already for the doctor, for help from anyone.

As Liyana lay on the floor, hands clutching her stomach, teeth gritted and eyes watering, she thought the same words over and over. Please. Please, not a miscarriage. Not again.

• • • •

Before the world ended, she’d never actually been in a hospital for anything other than to visit a sick family member, hadn’t needed to. She had her tonsils, her appendix. Had never broken a bone or had a terrible fever. Now, as she lay sweating in bed in what had been a tastefully appointed hut for the tourists, Liyana was grateful for that. She had no idea what she was missing.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Charlotte said, sitting next to her, stethoscope on Liyana’s belly, that barely-visible bump that said she was with child. She nodded, removed the cold scope. “Baby’s fine, though. Not to jinx anything, but . . .”

“Seventeen weeks. I’m farther along than I’ve ever been,” Liyana said.

“Well, now you’ve gone and done it,” Charlotte said, but she smiled. “Farther along than anyone since . . . you know.”

Liyana nodded. There was no name for it, not really, the thing that had ended the world. A war, some new weapon, bombs that ripped a hole right in reality. Some author had once said that any far-enough advanced technology would be indistinguishable from magic. Well, they’d gotten there. The little they’d seen before the internet and TV and radio all stopped working showed cities and people imploding, disintegrating, blinking away into air. Reporters just as mystified as everyone watching. Everything broke, the world became surreal. Nothing to do, Liyana thought, but to forge ahead, to will the world back to normalcy.

But most of humanity was dead, and the survivors couldn’t have babies, and the elephants were spontaneously combusting.

• • • •

“You know this was your idea, you can’t pretend that it wasn’t,” James said. “Every time, I tell you that you shouldn’t do it, that it’s too dangerous, that you could die. Every time you ignore me.”

“I don’t ignore you,” Liyana said quietly. But she knew she did. “This is too important to stop. I could have a baby. Humanity could keep going.”

James shook his head. They’d had the argument so many times before, Liyana could predict each beat of it. Now would come the part about how they didn’t know that people couldn’t have babies, that it could just be them. It was too dangerous to really travel anymore; they never heard from anywhere more than a hundred miles away; maybe there were pockets in the world that weren’t as twisted and ruined as Amboseli.

Liyana wouldn’t say, but would think that James needed the delusional belief in those safe havens, needed to imagine that his wife—his love, lost when the war began while he was in Kenya with the Elephant Preservation Project—and children were safe. She wouldn’t say, but would think that San Francisco was surely gone completely. Like Mombasa, like Durban, where her parents had lived. She wouldn’t say, but would think that she wasn’t forcing James to be with her, after all, hadn’t forced him into sleeping with her. That she was the pregnant one. That all the risk was hers.

Instead, she said, “I can do both. I’m just watching the elephants, and now that I know where they go, I can get a spot farther away, somewhere comfortable.”

Sighing, rubbing his fists into his eyes, James said, “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

Liyana knew that James was well aware he couldn’t make demands of her, that no one could. But just the fact that he knew that, the hitch in his voice when he said he would come along, softened her stance. She nodded.

There was affection between them, she thought, if not outright love. And he would make a good father, if anyone in the world became parents again. Four pregnancies, nothing to show but bloody and miscarried fetuses. Other women had gotten pregnant as well, but none with the determination of Liyana. She hadn’t seen any evidence that animals of any kind were breeding. The world was winding down, but she would bring it back. If need be, thrashing and squalling and fighting her the whole way.

• • • •

Liyana’s cousin Nandi had been the first girl Liyana knew to have a baby. As Liyana held her cousin’s month-old daughter in her arms, cooing and making faces at her, she talked to Nandi about her upcoming trip to Kenya, her first time visiting Amboseli, a research trip for grad school, tracking elephants. She supported the baby’s head while chattering away about elephant social structures, the importance of the matriarch.

“That’s what you’re talking about?” Nandi asked. “Elephants? Look at the baby, Liyana. Pretty little Inyoni. You can’t say you don’t want one for yourself.”

“Sure, sure,” Liyana said. “Someday. But I have so much to do now. I can’t be tied down by a baby.” Immediately, she stumbled over her apology, but Nandi laughed it off.

“You’re too funny,” Nandi said. “Give it time.”

Inyoni began crying then, and Liyana handed her back to her cousin, her fingers lingering on the soft skin of the baby’s neck.

Durban was gone now. Nandi and Inyoni and everyone else, gone or warped beyond recognition by forces Liyana could never understand. But the elephants remained, at least for now. And Liyana’s baby was past what would have been the dangerous time before. But now, there was no longer any time that was safe. Not in this world.

• • • •

As they watched fourteen elephants silently burn to death, their massive bodies hissing and crackling as flames leapt into the sky above them, James cried.

“There’s only fifty-three left now,” he whispered. “There were almost a hundred in the bond group when we started. They’re just dwindling away.”

“Just like us,” Liyana said, and he shot her a horrified look. “It’s true,” she protested. “When’s the last time you saw a baby elephant?”

Weeks earlier, when Liyana had told the others back at the lodge that she was going to find out what was happening to the elephants, where they were disappearing to, they’d joked that she was off to find the fabled elephants’ graveyard. Half the people there had been part of the Elephant Preservation Project; they knew that was a myth. And yet here she was. The same spot as a month ago, and almost weekly more elephants came, in groups of twos and threes and larger, and caught fire.

The fires burned out, leaving behind nothing but piles of gray ash. On their second time out together, James had noticed that the elephants touched their trunks to the ash before they began singing, each animal in the circle lowering its trunk to each ash pile, then touching the tip of their trunk to their forehead. Remembering the dead.

Now, with the elephants gone, he and Liyana walked down. No, she thought. James walked, Liyana waddled. Twenty-two weeks. Her stomach bulged under her t-shirt like she was trying to shoplift a melon.

They circled the ashes, still steaming in the afternoon heat. Each time they inspected the ashes, and each time gleaned no new information. If this had been before the war, before the great change to the world, they could have brought the ashes to a laboratory, had someone analyze them for bacteria, viruses, some evidence of what could be causing the elephants to combust. Of course, if it were before the change, the elephants wouldn’t be combusting in the first place.

“They come to the same spot every time,” James said. “Does that mean something? With the touching the ashes beforehand? Like how they’ll stand watch over their dead relatives?”

The ashes smelled of char and copper and something almost sweet. The combination made Liyana think of old candy, a caramel that had been forgotten between the seats of a car, left to rot in the sun. Bile rose in her throat and she spit it onto the ground next to the ashes. Spitting directly into the ashes seemed disrespectful. The elephants surely knew that these ashes were the remains of their family members, their friends. Smart animals, they understood death, understood the cycle of growth and decay.

“We’re in the wrong place,” she said.

“What? You think they have more than one spot?”

“No, no.” Liyana shook her head, looking in the direction the elephants had come from. “We’re seeing them die. If we want to know what’s causing this, we need to see them live.”

• • • •

Her whole life, Liyana rarely cried, and never in front of people. As a little girl, she fell off her bike riding around the neighborhood with some cousins, and as the pain traveled from her bloody knee to her eyes, she swallowed it back, rushed into her house, up to the bathroom, and shut the door behind her before she finally allowed a whimper to escape.

When she lost her first pregnancy, she didn’t cry. She knew it was coming, knew academically that she wouldn’t be the woman to miraculously carry a pregnancy to term when no one else could. But she felt hollow afterward nonetheless, emotionally scooped out like a pumpkin.

That night, she and James lay in bed, turned on their sides, back to back. Liyana couldn’t sleep. She listened to birds calling in the night, insects chirruping in the bush. She tried to clear her head, to think of nothing at all.

The mattress wobbled. A new sound joined those filtering in from outside. Breathy sobs, sniffling. James, her man, lamenting the loss of the baby. Lamenting the loss of his family, his wife and children, the whole world. He shook the bed and gulped air. He snorted and wiped away mucus.

She cried then, holding her body stiff, letting tears flow through ragged controlled breaths. Scalding tears of frustration and sadness and anger. She continued even after James petered out, fell into regular shallow breaths as he fitfully slept. Liyana cried and cried, but she wouldn’t let him see.

• • • •

The matriarch of the clan huffed and trumpeted and called in distress. Even someone who hadn’t studied elephants, even someone who’d never even seen an elephant until that moment, would know those sounds didn’t portend anything good.

Liyana knew just what the noises meant, and James certainly did, too. She wanted to rush to the elephant, but she knew she couldn’t help it. No one could.

No other elephants were in sight, keeping away from the struggling matriarch out of fear or respect. Maybe sheer fatigued depression. It was the middle of the night, and she pictured them out in the bush, trying to sleep, pretending they couldn’t hear their matriarch’s anguished cries.

The elephant loosed a bellow from deep within and a milky balloon fell from her underside, followed by a rush of blood and amniotic fluid. The broken, half-formed body of a baby elephant came with it.

The matriarch cried anew, reaching down with her trunk to sniff and prod and poke the fetus. But it was premature and deformed, and never had a hope of survival.

Liyana watched the matriarch attempt to lift the body, to place it on its feet, to will it alive. She did some quick math in her head. Twenty-two-month pregnancies, a few months off between. And they wouldn’t even last the full twenty-two months. Seven years had passed since the war had turned the world inside out. How many times had this matriarch miscarried or delivered stillborn fetuses? How many times had she felt life inside her and hoped that this time would be different? Three? More?

The matriarch sat down heavily, and Liyana laid herself on the ground as well, propped on her side, watching the elephant mourn. She felt James’s hand on her shoulder, heard him whisper, “We should go.”

She shook her head. “I have to stay,” she said, and felt a surge of gratitude when James didn’t ask why or insist upon leaving. Instead, he sat down next to her, a hand slowly stroking from her hip to her knee and back. Eventually, the stroking stopped, and she realized he was sleeping. But Liyana stayed awake, sitting with the elephant that didn’t know she was there.

• • • •

Her name whispered in her ear, a hand jostling her shoulder. With a start, Liyana woke up, and realized James was speaking to her and pointing at the spot where the matriarch had miscarried.

Groggy, Liyana sat up, and it took her a moment to realize the sun had risen and the elephant was gone.

“Where did she go?” she asked. “Did you see her leave?”

James shook his head, but turned. “Tracks show her heading that way.”

“Oh, god.” Liyana got to her feet as quickly as she could, hands on the back of her hips, back cracking and bladder throbbing painfully. “They really are doing it on purpose. We have to help her.”

James didn’t ask how, which was good, because Liyana didn’t know. But he went with her, taking her by the elbow and helping speed her along to the spot where the elephants burned.

• • • •

The matriarch had been joined by four more elephants, all young females. They’d begun circling the ash pile already, the tips of their trunks dusty and gray-black.

Liyana skidded to a stop, her sneakers gouging into the hard dirt, sending a spray of gravel and sand flying, but the elephants ignored her. James stopped alongside her, letting go of her elbow and putting his hands on his knees to suck deep breaths. She hadn’t imagined she could run at all this pregnant, let alone so fast.

“It’s a ritual,” James said. Liyana nodded, though he may as well have been speaking to himself.

Clearly it was a ritual. There was no doubt about that. But what Liyana hadn’t realized was the purpose, which now glared right at her, as obvious as the bright sun shining in the open sky above. Elephants’ graveyards weren’t real, but they remembered their ancestors, understood the passing of generations. Of course they would understand when that cycle ground to a halt. The sadness she saw now in the matriarch’s eyes wasn’t just for her lost calf, it was for the loss of every elephant in the world, the end of life. How many people had killed themselves in the last seven years? The cataclysm had somehow given these elephants the ability to burn, and they’d come to the conclusion that self-immolation was the best remaining option.

These thoughts swirled through Liyana’s mind, touching her consciousness then flitting off, barely cohering. She couldn’t think of what to do. Couldn’t think that there was anything to do. Something thudded against the inside of her stomach, and she looked down, confused, her hands instinctively cradling. The baby kicked again.

Liyana turned to James. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Please stay here.” And without waiting for a response, she ran as best she could into the center of the circle of elephants.

They shuffled backward and forward, their trunks flailing, but Liyana held her hands out, kept her head down, trying to appear submissive and unthreatening. As if she could threaten a creature of this size.

Heat radiated off the animals, baking Liyana’s skin as if she was standing in front of an open oven. This close, splotches of pink and red danced across the elephants’ wrinkled gray skin. Shimmery heat waves blurred their edges.

“Please,” she said. “You don’t need to do this. The world isn’t over. It’s going to go on. We’re all going to go on.” The elephants calmed at her tone, but the temperature still rose. Liyana smelled ozone, and worried that her hair would singe if she didn’t move soon.

Such heat couldn’t be good for her baby, or for Liyana herself. Her head swam, and she feared she’d swoon, that if she fell she’d be caught up in the conflagration when the elephants set themselves alight. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t go.” Her eyelids fluttered.

They shot back open when she felt the air cool and something warm press against her distended stomach, and she found herself staring into the face of the matriarch, the elephant’s massive ears flapping slightly, fanning the sweat from Liyana’s forehead. It was the closest she’d ever been to an elephant in all her years studying them. Both before and after the destruction of the world, she’d always been at a distance. The matriarch’s eyes gleamed with deep intelligence and curiosity. She probed again with her trunk, then used it to lift the hem of Liyana’s shirt. Liyana removed it the rest of the way. Around her, the other elephants pressed closer, their bodies cooling, but still giving off residual warmth. She imagined herself in a cocoon of elephant hide, and laughed.

The matriarch lightly pressed her trunk against Liyana’s belly and the other elephants joined her. As if sensing them, the baby inside her kicked once, then again and again and again, a rapid tattoo like she was happily stomping her feet, dancing to some inaudible music.

An array of calls sounded from the elephants around her, high and low, a rippling melody that thrummed through her whole body. Trumpeting sounded in the distance, the more distant members of the clan joining in. They sang to her baby for what felt like ages, before they suddenly stopped, turned, and exited the clearing, the matriarch the last to go, her trunk lingering on Liyana’s stomach for a long moment before she, too, left, pausing to turn back only once, catching Liyana’s eye as she stood frozen to the spot in the middle of the ashes. The matriarch blinked slowly, then walked away.

In an instant, James was at her side as Liyana sagged into the ashes of the dead elephants, breath hitching in a combination of laughter and relief. She still wasn’t sure what she’d done, but she believed she’d made a promise to the elephants. She prayed she could keep it.

• • • •

After the screaming and the unimaginable pain and the gritted teeth, the contractions and pushing, a little girl fell into the world. Crying and slick and sparkling with some unreal internal glow, since nothing in this world could be the same as it had once been. But Liyana held her daughter, and cried unabashed tears of joy. This was her girl. She was alive and in the world, however warped that world had become. She was human. She was magic.

©2018 by Timothy Mudie.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Timothy Mudie has had fiction published in Lightspeed, Aliterate, Metaphorosis, Abyss & Apex, and several other magazines and anthologies. He lives outside of Boston, where he works as an editor at a publishing house.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

Mozart on the Kalahari

Steven Barnes | 5850 words

It took Michael “Meek” Prouder half an hour to magtube from Claremont to the Coachella Valley desert, near the Nestlé Reservoir entertainment pier. In this oasis of hot dogs, pinwheel fireworks, and whirlygigs, he could lounge and marinate himself, soak up rays as he listened to the music radiating from the dam wall, and sink under the rhythmic roar of artificial waves crashing against the artificial shore. He could walk out into the desert away from the city lights, far enough to gather cactus flowers or, when the sun died and the stars peeked out, to set up his telescope and watch the little matchstick structures floating there in orbit, simultaneously out of reach and close enough to touch.

The Disney Observation Platform, where the uber-wealthy could vacation above them all, free from gravity, gazing at the stars with no shrouding clouds to mask their glory, close enough to the Moon to taste the cheese.

A hundred thousand dollars a day, and cheap at the price.

If his arms were just a little longer. Just a little. If he only had the time. But when he looked in the mirror, at his discolored hands and stained eyes, he knew that time was something he couldn’t afford.

Seventeen-year-old Meek Prouder was dying, and it was his own damned fault. He could see the damage, and feel it, too, a constant itching like ants marching through his veins.

He could soothe that itch by covering his mocha skin in sand, and soaking in the day’s heat. There, bathed in warmth, he could escape the constant reminder of what he had become. There, he could close his eyes against the bright light of day and dream he was on the DOP. He could . . . but then he wouldn’t feel the sunlight on his skin, get that tingle, that sense that something good might trickle into a wasted life. He could just soak it in.

But that feeling vanished like desert dew when he caught the magtube back west, as if every mile drained something from him, something that was alive in the greenhouse, or in the desert, but that trickled out of him in school, or shambling around the neighborhood like a brown bear in purple shades.

And by the time the tube settled onto its rails at Claremont station, all of that warmth had evaporated.

“Hey, Meek,” said Mrs. Adabezi as he walked the last row of the trailer park. “Hey, Meek,” Mr. Zhao nodded, pouring filtered piss on the little picket-rowed vegetable garden. The old man meant no harm. None of them did. But Meek walked on, paying no attention, until he was home.

• • • •

“How was the desert, Michael?” Grandpa Tyrone asked, after a look and a sniff at the bouquet of pink and orange cactus flowers sprouting from a table vase. He smiled as he set a plate stacked high with quinoa pancakes in front of Meek. He was really too weak to cook Meek’s brunch, but when Meek had tried to do his own cooking after Grandma died, the look on his grandfather’s weathered face broke his heart. It was as if Meek was telling him that he was good for nothing these days. Meek couldn’t take that last thing from a man with so little left to give.

While he ate, he told Grandpa of the things he’d seen and the people he’d met out in Palm Springs. Grandpa tried to look attentive but his smiles were slow to rise, and he seemed fatigued and ashen, as if he had eaten a bad apple. Or maybe had some of the same stuff that was killing Meek. Grandpa seemed to think the same about Meek, and asked: “You feeling okay?”

“Fine.”

“Let’s go out to the greenhouse,” Grandpa said, and after dishes were cleared and desserts dished into trays, Meek wheeled him out. And there, inside the plastic flaps of the tent in the little square of yard they rented from the Zhaos, they sat and spoke of the old days. Grandpa was ancient enough to remember when the magtube was just built, when the government used that eminent domain thing to build what nobody had wanted.

“What you wanna do, boy?” he asked.

Meek took another big bite of dwarf-peach cobbler and pointed up. “Get up there,” he said. The Moon was high above them, visible through the transparent roof as a big old pie he could just eat up.

Grandpa gummed his cobbler, thoughtful.

“They say people like us don’t go up there,” he said. “That we’re trapped. That robots are taking all the jobs, and folks hate us for being dole babies.” A twinge of pain crossed the old man’s face. Once he’d earned his living by the sweat of his brow, supported a wife and grandson. But the LA Quake had broken the city’s finances and much of the infrastructure, and the corporations that swooped in to provide and maintain services made . . . let’s just say different decisions than had the general electorate.

Declining tax base and virtual classrooms had crumbled the state’s college system. Then they brought in the drone gardeners . . . and early retirement had been the best of Grandpa’s very poor options. Still, he found the optimism to add, “But I still believe that if you use your mind, you can go anywhere you want.”

And he meant it. Grandpa was the only one who didn’t laugh at Meek’s dreams. The last time Meek’s girlfriend Sonja had come to the greenhouse, she’d ooohed and aaahed at the only such facility she’d ever seen, eaten free peaches and pears and nuzzled him with honeyed breath, but just rolled her eyes when he’d told her about the Moon. Space wasn’t for them. Hell, shouldn’t be for anybody, the way she saw it. What good was it, when there weren’t enough jobs right here on Earth?

“All kinds of things came out of people trying to get to space,” he’d said.

“You wanna tell me about satellites again?” Sonja laughed. “Maybe cell phones and microchips, like Mickey says?” She squeaked her voice like the mouse in the cartoon they’d watched in assembly: “We need Space! We need to get to Pluto, Pluto!”

He remembered that animation, an attempt to convince them that tax subsidies were not wasted on the Disney Observation Platforms hovering around the globe. “That stuff is real,” he said, her kisses cooling as he did. “We need dreams even more.” She’d looked at him slyly, smoothing his hand up along her leg. “What are you dreamin’ now, boy?”

“That there’s a way out,” Meek said. “Up there.”

“What?” Her hand froze where it was. “We shippin’ all the broke-asses up there? Ain’t enough spaceships, Meek. You trippin’. The Meek ain’t gonna inherit the Earth.” They’d argued. She’d left. And that was the end of Them.

As he often did, Meek poured all his emotion into his plants, thinking of nothing outside the plastic walls until Grandpa wheeled out with a covered dish of mac and cheese and homegrown broccoli. The old man turned his head to watch what Meek was doing. “Whatchu up to, boy?”

“I want this orchid to dance with this dwarf orange tree, Gramps. Would sell great at the street fair.”

“Did at that, boy.” He peered more closely at Meek’s workbench, with the centrifuge and the pipettes and the little racks and stain-wipes. The label said MONSANTO GENE KIT UNIVERSITY EDITION.

Grandpa squinted. “Where you get that stuff?”

“Traded for it,” Meek mumbled.

His grandfather’s face tightened in response. “You steal that, boy?”

His face burned. “Traded for it.”

“From someone who stole it for you,” said Grandpa, being no fool. “I know you. Don’t you try to lie to me now. You traded what?”

“Stuff I made,” he said, hating himself. A lie was a lie, even when hiding behind a half-truth.

His grandfather scowled, but then began to laugh. “Boy, you ain’t got the sense God gave a gopher, but damned if you don’t straight-up remind me of your daddy.”

Meek’s daddy. He’d been out of work, too, wanted something to do. Meek had only been five years old when his daddy and a few friends tried to rob the OPEC ambassador, and gone to jail forever.

“Let’s not talk about it,” Meek said, and turned on the little box that gave them their entertainment. Meek liked the Wizard of Aaahs science show, and watched its lectures and demonstrations whenever he could wrest the set away from Gramps. Grandpa liked the news. Together they scanned through the dozens of news channels until Meek saw something that he liked: an image of Clarke Station. The Clavius-based Biology Lab was dedicated to recombinant DNA research, where escaping microbes were a quarter-million miles of insulating vacuum away from Earth.

And then an image of the luxurious DOP, visible only as a skeletal matchbox through his telescope.

“No way,” Meek whispered.

“—and on the twentieth anniversary of the establishment of Luna base, we announce the American Space Society’s first annual Science Contest. Five lucky students will receive five-year college scholarships to Yale-Gates and an all-expenses paid trip to the Disney Observation Platform . . .”

It reverberated in his head like a gong.

Trip to the DOP!

• • • •

The contestants would be selected from a pool of science lottery winners, schools being gifted with tickets according to some arcane formula, distribution of said tickets to be determined by each school. Winners would have six weeks to create a project related in some way to human exploration of the solar system.

Six weeks. Then all winners in the western states would gather, and compete for one of the five scholarships.

In the halls of school the next day, he ghosted through classes he was failing anyway, damaged eyes hidden behind his shades, tainted hands concealed in gloves, fear and despair numbing him until he could barely hear what was said to him by the students and teachers.

Trip to the DOP!

The words echoed in his head in gym class, a soundtrack to the thuds and grunts on the football field, the constant companion of the pain in his knees strangely absent. He was numbing out, he reckoned. Nerve damage, another symptom of the toxins that would take his life. Oh, he could take the hits, but knew that deep down his bones were breaking a little more every day. He had maybe a year. Possibly two. Certainly no more.

Young, desperate, invincible, he had made drugs for the Ballers to supplement the money Grandpa made at the Pomona Street Market, and he knew the chemicals he’d used had poisoned him. “Make more of it,” they said to him. “We can make you rich.”

But it wasn’t enough money to make a damned bit of difference in the long run, and with the time bomb ticking in his blood there wasn’t a long run. Nothing much mattered any more, except the last dream his heart dared to hold.

Meek sleepwalked home, his brain abuzz.

“What you thinking about, boy?” Grandpa seemed more shrunken than usual, his face greenish in the reflected light. “What you doing over there in the back where I can’t get no more? Just because I can’t get around don’t mean that I don’t know what you doin’ back there!”

A locked toolshed abutted the greenhouse, through a vertical slit cut in the plastic. Meek spoke the password to the lock on the shed’s door, and it swung open. This was where he did his magic, where he grew the plants that had earned him the fast money, the “friends,” the things he’d traded for the Monsanto kit. It was stealing, no matter what he said. He knew it, Grandpa knew it. This was why he did it: orchids and dwarf orange trees and crossbreeds with no names. This was his place, the greenhouse within the greenhouse, the only place in this world he felt at home. But maybe there was another world. If he wasn’t almost out of time.

The work sink in his secret place was a simple thing of beaten metal and thin porcelain. A hobgoblin glared back at him from the mirror. Ghoul’s eyes. A ghost without a grave, the sclera tinged green as mold on rotting cheese.

No one knew him. No one would miss him, once Grandpa was gone, which would be soon, he knew. Soon.

And then Meek would be gone, too, as if he had never lived at all.

• • • •

Exactly one week later, Tyrone Prouder didn’t wake up. When the county men came to take him away, Meek refused to let go of his cold hand, or let the paramedics carry his body out of the house. That was his job. Grandpa’s body felt as brittle and hollow as a bag of dried leaves. Because Meek was more man than boy, he was allowed to stay in the house, although relations came sniffing around and told him that they’d had “arrangements” with Grandpa Prouder, “understandings” that they would own the house after his death.

“We’ll take care of you,” Aunt Emma from Bakersfield said.

“And you can believe that,” said “Minister” Folks from Kansas, a cousin or great-uncle or something. Meek didn’t know, and didn’t care.

He spent more and more time in the greenhouse. When he wasn’t deep in his cuttings, he was in the desert soaking in the sun and searching for the little cactus flowers his grandpa loved. He’d bring them back to the trailer because the house was still clotted with family who seemed to think that “wake” meant “move on in.”

They told him to move into his grandfather’s room, but he preferred to let his fat uncle sleep in the postered bed. He, Meek, would dream with the plants, in the moist, warm air rich with their exhalations, where he dropped off into slumber almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

And in dream he was one of them, a member of the only tribe that had ever welcomed him. He had roots, not legs, tendrils that descended to the center of the Earth. And a stalk that was as tall as the Mitsubishi orbital tether, a Superkevlar beanstalk beyond fairy-tale imaginings.

A stalk reaching all the way to the golden DOP floating above them. In his dream he was one of the prize winners who reveled with the rich in that floating castle, from which all of Earth seemed but profit and loss and lands for corporate conquest.

His dreams shifted and pulsed with color and life, sliding through time and space. Now he danced weightless as a dandelion spore on the wind. Now light-stepped among ancient craters, now slept in cryo borne on laser light sails and speeding to the stars.

That Meek did not hear the laughter of the boys and girls in the lunchroom.

He would find a way out. With whatever remained of him, of his life. He would leave this dusty ground behind.

• • • •

Pomona High had been allotted three tickets for entrance to the DOP competition, to be won by performance on the AAAS assessment test series. For the first time in months, Meek studied. Hard, like Grandpa had always begged him to do. Barely slept, so deeply buried in his books was he. And to the surprise of everyone in assembly (himself exuberantly included) was called to the podium and awarded second place.

In his dreams that night, chrysanthemums waltzed for joy.

The science fair was held in LA’s rebuilt downtown in Sony Coliseum’s main auditorium, crowded top to bottom with little cubicles in which students from across the state bolted, stapled, and glued up their booths and displays. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. There was no end to the mini-electromag drives and remote-control rockets and home-cobbled radio telescopes. So when the gaunt giant with the wheelbarrow came through the room, people looked and wondered what was new beside ho-ho-ho, what he was doing and if he might be the janitor.

Meek’s eye was caught by the booth a few desks over, one of the few that held something more than circuits and metal and shining glass. Beneath a banner reading Kathleen Chang: Microgravity-Resistant Plant Experiment, the elfin contestant tended busily to her charges, black hair swinging as she turned between her tables.

Her emerald eyes caught his as she explained what she was doing: “I constructed and used a Rotating Wall Vessel to test the effects of null gravity on plant germination and embryo gestation . . .” A busy little crowd had sprouted around her, but it seemed that she spoke just to him. For the moment their eyes met, he thought he was in microgravity himself. Wanted to weightlessly float to Kathleen’s tiny world of spinning centrifuges and magnetic fields in which the diminutive seeds and creatures were endlessly falling, falling, falling, and learn what she was doing and how she was doing it.

He could have watched her all day. But between the oscilloscopes and the SETI micro-dishes, he knew that he had to get to his space and get set up, or the day would get away from him.

While he set up his folding cardboard panels, plants, and scrolling viewslates, the visitors crept by, pretending to care about other things, and watched, and laughed, but Meek silently put everything in its place and stood in his best clothes and his best smile, and waited. The announced big star, Raymond “Wizard of Aaahs” Culpepper, bounced onto the stage and said how proud he was of each and every one of them, and what an honor it was to be here, and how proud their schools must be of them. He was all angular wit and golden charm, enough charisma to flash-fry eggs and brilliant in the brief Q&A that followed. Then, to riotous applause, he sauntered off the stage, and began to circulate around the room.

Meek felt like a love-sick girl. He had never seen anyone who had been to high orbit, let alone the Moon itself. But The Wizard had, and he was a thing of wonder.

I’ve watched you every day, Meek would say after shaking the man’s hand.

I’ve studied every one of your books, he would tell the wonderful Wizard, who would clap him on the shoulder and say, You are a remarkable young man! We have experts who can heal you! Come with me . . .

And that gilded feeling lasted until the gaggle of judges arrived at his booth. The Wonderful Wizard of Aaahs was not among them. The other judges, stripped of stardust, studied his papers and plants, and prodded at the leaves, and talked to him with that slightly distant expression people have when you are merely the pause between the last one and the next one.

His display said, “producing more bioavailable protein per cubic meter of soil” and “more oxygen conversion than any other Butterfly Palm,” and accompanied those grandiose claims with a long list of specifications. The men and the women looked at his numbers and checked his plants and sniffed their noses into the air, saying, “Your numbers are wrong, young man. It isn’t possible for you to have done this.” And they punched numbers on their comms and clucked sadly, as if they actually had shits to give.

The kids around him didn’t laugh. He wished they had. Then he might have raged and broken something. Or someone. He felt the wetness drool from beneath his sunglasses, and, not wishing to be shamed, ran out of the hall and away from the contestants who might, in another, better world, have been friends and peers.

He ran out into the alley, gawping and making goony-bird sounds in the early-evening gloom, trying not to throw up. Who are you? he whipped himself. Who are you to think there is an escape hatch?

For others, perhaps, but not for his grandfather, or father, or him. Never for him. He would die and go into the ground without ever seeing stars that did not wink in contempt. Never feeling that divine sensation of floating free of a grasping Earth. And no one would care.

Meek stripped off his gloves, tore off his shades, and sobbed out his dreams, only belatedly seeing the red glow in the night, smelling the sweet cigar smoke. He turned to see a man leaning against the walled shadows, watching him.

Meek wiped his hand across his face, washing his cheeks with tears. The smoker watched, saying nothing.

“What are you looking at, Mister?” Meek said, and knotted his fists into clubs.

After a pause the man said, “I shouldn’t do this,” and hoisted his cigar emphatically.

Dear God, he knew that voice.

The smoking man tapped his cigar against the wall. “Shouldn’t do that, either.” He laughed.

Meek trembled. Never had he been so close to stardust.

“You had the protein and oxygen plants, right?” asked the Wizard.

“I . . .” The Lord of Aaahs had noticed him? Meek sagged almost to his knees, then pushed himself back upright. “Yeah, that was me.”

“How’d you do?”

“Screwed up, man.” Meek’s voice dulled. “Had my numbers all wrong.”

He looked up at the Wizard, trying to find some words, something that might have some power, but came up empty. It had taken all he had just to get him this far, and he could go no further. Time to slink back to Grandpa’s house, and the solitary cot between the rows.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” The Wizard asked.

Meek flinched. He groped in the darkness, found his shades, and slipped them back on. Culpepper stepped closer. Meek felt transfixed. Trapped. Found out. Couldn’t move as Culpepper reached out and slipped off Meek’s shades, peered into his face like a man examining the map of an unknown country.

“I’m sick,” the boy said.

“How do you feel?” Culpepper asked.

The question didn’t make sense. He knew he was dying, and some part of him now yearned for oblivion. But . . . but . . .

He didn’t actually feel bad. Little appetite, yes, but . . .

Culpepper asked Meek a few questions. The boy couldn’t remember answering them, so shocked was he to be having the conversation at all, but shook himself out of it when Culpepper took him by the hand and said, “Come with me,” and led him back into the hall.

And to the crowd, which watched jostling and tittering and wondering what trouble had befallen his pitiful little cardboard kingdom.

Culpepper called over the judges, and whispered to them. They looked at Meek’s numbers and his pages and to his plants again, and at the materials from which his project was constructed, and too late he realized that in his great fatigue he had left a piece of the box that said UNIVERSITY EDITION.

“His grandfather was the groundskeeper at Schick-Mudd,” someone said.

One of his classmates constructed her hand comm. “The serial number on that box matches a stolen gene kit.”

The halls were roiled by a great disturbance, as the judges examined his equipment more carefully, and then another classmate at a neighboring booth called security. Panic descended like a red shroud. Meek turned and sprinted once again, past the pretty microgravity girl whose crowd gaped as he ran and ran, forgetting the Moon, forgetting the DOP, forgetting everything in his desperation to shed his broken dreams. Then the security guards caught him, and dragged him down like gravity as he screamed.

• • • •

“Michael Prouder,” the duty officer called, and Meek shifted his bulk from the shadowed corner of the holding cell. The other prisoners stared and moved away from him, afraid. The police didn’t seem to want to touch him. They wordlessly led him to the room where he imagined the public defender waited, some desperate night-school lawyer smelling of failure and bad coffee.

But it wasn’t the public defender.

It was The Wizard of Aaahs.

“Look at me, Michael,” Culpepper said. Meek did not, staring down into his hands as if staring hard and long enough might help him vanish into the rivers and green valleys scriven thereon.

“We took blood and urine samples when you came in, you know.”

Yes, he knew.

“Do you know why?”

“The drugs,” Meek said, his own voice a dull roar.

“The drugs. And we went to your house. The police found the things you’d stolen.” Culpepper’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

Meek nodded. Half-truths were lies, and he was done with lies.

“Why?”

“Grandpa needed air,” Meek said, ashamed of how small his voice had become. “He was a smoker, like you. I could make it a little better for him.”

“A little better,” the Wizard said. “So you stole the Monsanto kit. Who taught you how to use it?”

“I learned,” he muttered. “MIT online free school.”

“You taught yourself using the free school? Your grades are . . .” Culpepper searched for a word. “You’re failing every class. You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” Meek said. “I don’t expect shit. But it’s the truth.”

The Wizard mulled that over. “The amount of increased food value was wrong,” he remarked. “The numbers were wrong.”

Meek sighed. He knew. Everything in the world was wrong. Maybe that hadn’t always been true, but it was certainly true now.

“The oxygen numbers were good, good enough to help your grandfather’s emphysema, but not better than what we already have. I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Meek said. “Be dead soon. Just . . . just wanted to see space before I did.”

Silence in that room, and dying dreams. If Meek had never spoken again, it would have been fine by him. He could be silent, as silent as a plant. He could just bury himself in the desert, and soak in the sun and . . .

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Not hungry,” Meek said.

Culpepper pursed his lips. “How long have your eyes and hands been . . . like this?”

Meek looked at his hands. He didn’t think about it much, just covered it up with gloves and sunglasses. Mr. Cool. The light skin of his hands and the whites of his eyes were pale green.

“When was the last time you ate, Michael?” Culpepper asked again.

“Day before yesterday.”

“Spend a lot of time in the sun, don’t you?”

Meek looked up. “Yeah, I guess.”

“The desert?”

It would be a long time before he saw the desert again.

“And the beach,” he whispered. “I like the beach, too.” He loved it almost as much as the desert. But the ocean itself . . . he didn’t like its taste. It didn’t nurture him.

Salt water was for tears.

He wondered if he would ever cry again.

“You created the little peach trees?”

“Dwarfs,” Meek mumbled. “They’re called dwarfs.”

Culpepper reached across the table, took Meek’s wrists. Meek was so surprised that he didn’t pull back. “How long have your palms, the whites of your eyes . . .”

Been green? Long enough to know that he had poisoned himself, somehow. The mutagens, or the processing chemicals the Pomona Ballers needed him to use to extract essence from his plants. He had no one to blame but himself. Just hoped that something special, something good might happen, just once, before he stopped waking up.

Culpepper drummed his fingers on the table then sat straight, as if he had come to a decision. “One of my philosophy teachers once said that if Mozart had been born a Kalahari Bushman, he’d have been known as the best drummer in his family.”

Meek blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that great genius can be completely lost without the social context to nurture it. That can happen to an entire culture.” The Wizard leaned further forward, pushing at Meek’s space. “And sure as hell to a single boy. He used a stolen Monsanto gene kit to make dwarf fruit trees. Increase the oxygen production of one plant, the protein output of another.” He paused. “That’s not the part that most interests me. He thought he’s changed his plants. But they also changed him.”

“The . . . plants?” Meek could barely breathe.

“Yes. Something happened, Michael. Have you ever heard the term lateral gene transfer?”

“Sure,” Meek scoffed. “Think I’m stupid?”

“Not at all. Not even a bit. You bred those plants, but all organisms are more than their simple genetics. They are also symbiotes and parasites and their interactions with the natural environment, energy and material transfers. Something in those plants transferred to you and your grandfather. Whether through touch or ingestion, we just don’t know. Yet.”

“Genetic change through ingestion?”

The Wizard nodded. “Some organelles are thought to be microorganisms swallowed by prokaryotic cells, but got comfortable instead of digested.” He smiled. “Developed a symbiotic relationship that got passed from generation to generation. According to the autopsy, Tyrone Prouder should have been dead months ago. You kept him alive.”

“That’s what I wanted. The plants . . .” an oddly bashful feeling flooded over him. Could he even say this to someone he didn’t know? He could barely talk about it with his Grandpa. And yet . . . there was something about this man . . .

“They talked to me.”

“How?”

“I dream about them.”

Culpepper doodled on his notebook. “Do you remember the microgravity exhibit?”

Meek nodded.

“The truth is that we could be colonizing the asteroid belt, but humans who stay in space for more than a few years might not be able to come home.”

Muscles atrophy. Negative calcium transport spins bones into glass. “Yeah, I heard that.”

“Well, same things happen to plants that happen to animals. They don’t develop properly. That young Miss Chang . . . she bred vines with greater structural integrity, which can more easily resist the negative effects. It’s fascinating. Do you know the term ‘mycorrhizae’?”

Hearing the challenge in his voice, Meek felt anger rise up, but also something else . . . pleasurable anticipation, like when someone hits a ball and it’s coming right to you and you can already feel the thunk in your glove.

His mind opened, and he saw the answer as if the search page had opened in front of him. “Mycorrhizae are symbiotic relationships that form between plants and fungi.”

“How does it work?” Culpepper leaned in, seemed almost to be holding his breath.

Meek recited. “The fungi colonize a host plant’s root system. They . . . provide increased nutrient absorption or water.”

“And do they get anything in return?”

“Carbohydrates formed from photosynthesis.”

“Highest marks,” Culpepper said. “Young Miss Chang used that principle to strengthen her plants. And that strength might well be a secret to resisting microgravity . . .” His voice had become ruminative, and for a moment Meek saw someone new, the scientist beneath the showman. “But you did something that makes it even more potentially interesting.”

Meek was riveted. “What’s that?”

“If there is no way to compensate for microgravity, it may be necessary to modify human beings themselves for long-term colonization efforts. We’ve tried a number of animal approaches, without the success we want. But no one was able to do what you’ve done: The plant chloroplasts . . . well, they sort of talked to your mitochondria. Something happened within you that we’ve not been able to imitate with a billion-dollar lab. You actually photosynthesize, Michael. Not hugely, but enough that you crave sunlight and need less food. Something in your plants operated like a botanical nanocyte, carrying its genetic information into your cells. Amazing.”

“I . . . just tinkered,” Meek whispered.

“Tinkered.” Culpepper rolled the word around in his mouth. Shook his head in wonder.

“Who won the contest?” Meek asked, voice breaking with hope.

“Kid named Quentin Frost, from Eugene, Oregon. His experiment increased output of solar cells.”

There it was. It was never going to happen for him, no matter what, he was—Culpepper studied him. “But there’s one thing more. Did you meet Kathleen Chang? The microgravity girl?”

No, he hadn’t, and what did it matter? What did one loser have to say to another?

“She couldn’t win, because she’s only got half the answer,” Culpepper said. “You have the other half. Someone like you could colonize the asteroid belt. Not people like me. But someone like you. You’re the future, Meek. And it’s possible that we are the past.” He paused, and then smiled. A good, warm smile. Like Grandpa’s.

“So . . .” Meek said slowly. “No Disney Observation Platform . . .?”

“No,” Culpepper grinned. “But have you ever heard of Clarke Station?”

• • • •

It was all a dream. His roots sinking to an impossible depth. His branches and leaves and tendrils extending an impossible reach. And the most beautiful dance he had ever known. Meek awoke in his cot, lying there among his verdant comrades, yawning and stretching and thinking of the wonderful fantasy he’d had. But it was a dream, even now sloughing away like sweet syrup.

He’d had it before. Hoped he would never stop. It was too easy to forget the good things.

He got up from the bed, trying to remember where he was. Who he was, what anything was. He should write the dreams down so he could remember them. Maybe he’d write a book. Someone might want to know about this, one day.

When he reached, he dislodged the pen from its magnetic clip on the planter beside him. It spun into the air, bounced off the wall. He watched it bouncing between the rows of tomatoes and ferns, still not tired of the sight. He dressed without unsnapping his sleep cocoon, and then plucked the pen out of the air and pressed it to the paper of his leather-bound journal, the one that his grandfather had purchased and given to him for his birthday. Oh, Grandpa. If you could only see me now. See me in the observation room with the other tourists.

He had not noticed, but Kathleen Chang had joined him in the observation room. She was even tinier than she’d appeared at the contest. Unlike the other passengers, she didn’t keep her distance. She smiled up at him. “Take off those sunglasses,” she commanded.

“My eyes are green,” he said.

“So are mine.” She smiled. The back of her hand brushed his.

He slipped off his shades. So that’s the world, he thought, watching the Earth recede in infinitesimal stages. It isn’t all concrete and desert, I knew it wasn’t. It’s green.

He shifted to watch the approach screen, the Moon growing every larger, a dream expanding to fill the space before him. Luna. Not dead after all. More alive every day.

Like me.

All either of us needed was the right dream.

©2017 by Steven Barnes. Originally published in Visions, Ventures, Escape Velocities, edited by Ed Finn, Joey Eschrich, and Juliet Ulman. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steven Barnes is a New York Times bestselling, award-winning novelist and screenwriter who is the creator of the Lifewriting™ writing course, which he has taught nationwide. He recently won an NAACP Image Award as co-author of the Tennyson Hardwick mystery series with his wife, Tananarive Due, and actor Blair Underwood. He has written over 20 novels, and worked on shows such as The Outer Limits, Stargate SG-1, and Baywatch. For an overview of his 20-plus novels, visit Amazon.com. Steve’s true love is teaching balance and enhancing human performance in all forms: emotional, professional and physical. In addition to being an author and writing instructor, he is also a life coach, CST coach and certified hypnotist.

The Old Women Who Were Skinned

Carmen Maria Machado | 1470 words

There once were two sisters, close in age, who had been birthed and loved and became stooped and wise and were now old women together. They lived in a house in a courtyard surrounded by a tall stone wall, meant to keep out most children and all men, though starlings made their nests in the boughs of the elms.

One day, the king—an old man himself—was walking by the wall when he heard the lilting voices of the sisters, who had become accomplished singers over their long years. He listened for a while, his eyes narrowed with contentment, and then ambled his way to a small gap in the mortar.

“What sweet creatures sing behind these walls?” he asked. Both sisters scrambled for the gap, but the first sister—a little taller, with slightly longer legs—got there first.

“We have always been here, your highness,” she said, her voice gravelly at its edge.

“Show me,” the king said.

So the first sister slipped her finger into the gap. She felt the king’s breath puff on her skin, and then his lips enveloped it.

The thrill she felt! Out of sight, the king’s mouth was wet and tight—like probing her own sex—and she felt a kick of desire as he suckled her fingertip as if it were a nipple. At the edge of the pull and draw was a nip of teeth, and she moaned. Excited by this, the king bit down and drew blood, which excited him further. It was all he could do to not loose himself from his clothes.

“My young maiden,” he said. “My blushing, tender girl. Come to my bedchamber tonight. I wish to be your first, to barricade past your maidenhead.”

The sisters laughed silently behind their hands, for they had rid themselves of their maidenheads long ago. But then the first sister said, sweetly, “My king, you may have any part of me you wish. I will be there tonight.”

And then the king was gone. The first sister withdrew her finger and examined the bite marks at their tip. Before she departed, she had the second sister gather up her extra skin and pin it tightly behind her back, so that she might appear young as the king believed her to be.

• • • •

That night, the first sister arrived at the castle beneath a cloak, and was whisked upstairs by staff as silent as dolls. From outside his bedchamber door, she said, “My love, I am afraid of fire. Please put out your candles before I enter.”

From within, she heard the hiss of a snuffed flame. The door opened.

In the silt of the shadows they made love. Afterwards, as she glowed with sensation, the first sister wished him to see her as she really was. She wanted his pleasure to come from her stomach and thighs and breasts, not those of some imaginary creature. And so in the darkness, she stood, and unpinned her skin. She struck a match and laid it to the candle’s wick.

The king, horrified by her shape, leapt from the bed. He shoved her toward the window, and then out of it. “Please, please,” she begged as he pried her fingertips from the ledge. He did not even stay to watch her fall.

The first sister plummeted down, and down, but just before she struck the ground, she became tangled in the branches of a tree. Its thorns hooked into the soft folds of her body. She screamed and cried and hung there like a tanning hide.

It was then that a group of fairies passed by. They laughed at the old woman in the tree, bare and slick and weeping. Her humiliation was intoxicating to them as wine.

Fairies are very indulgent, self-satisfied creatures, and their meddling knows no ends. And so one of them waved his finger and the first sister dropped to the earth. She lay on the cool soil, afraid to move. The fairies walked off, and she heard their voices long after they’d disappeared into the night. Her tears dried and left streaks of salt behind.

When the first sister finally stood up, she felt strange—no longer sore, and supple as a reed. She ran her hands over her body, apple-firm and smooth. Her flesh was young again.

• • • •

The second sister waited for the first sister to return. They had shared lovers throughout their long lives, and as soon as they were together again, the second sister knew that she would learn the secrets of the king’s pleasure, and take her own in turn.

But when the night thinned into dawn, and then day, and the first sister did not return, the second sister left their home to find her. She walked along the wall and through the door and out into the bright world. All she found near the castle was a beautiful young maiden, sitting naked beneath a tree.

“Excuse me,” said the second sister, “I don’t mean to trouble you, but have you seen—” It was then that she recognized her sister’s eyes, hazel as her own.

The first sister looked at the second sister with horror. Had her own skin hung in such a way? Had she been so shriveled, so loose, so ancient? She could barely remember.

“What’s happened to you?” the second sister asked.

“This is the skin that was beneath,” the first sister said. She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if disagreeing with herself. She tried to explain again. “This is my true skin.”

The second sister reached out and touched the first sister’s jaw. It was downy and soft as a newborn fawn. They had not had skin like that since they were young women together. “You’re gone,” she said. “Sister, you’ve left me behind.”

The first sister pulled her face away. “I’m sorry,” she said. She stood and walked back toward the castle, to find the king.

The second sister walked to town and located a barber. “Take my skin,” she said. She handed him a coin.

“Take it off?” he said.

She handed him a second coin.

He shrugged. He dragged his razor up and down a leather strap, and then held it up for inspection. The blade-edge caught the morning light.

It was like the sweet, briny bite of sugar against an open nerve; then, like being dropped into the sun.

• • • •

The second sister continued to live even after the barber hung her skin from his window, and then sold it to a bookbinder. But with no flesh to contain her body, the wet meat of her muscle and the roping of her tendons were on full display. Bits of dust and soil clung to her damp organs.

She often woke to the sensation of mice scrabbling beneath her breastbone, of skittering cockroaches rounding her eye. On the rare occasion when she ventured beyond the wall, mothers would bend down to their children and point at her. “See?” they would say. “This is what happens when you worry about your looks. Such is the price of vanity.” She spent the remainder of her life wiping crumbs from her joints and crevices, tears draining through her body like raindrops sliding down a windowpane.

As for the first sister, there are many stories about how she ended up trawling the earth for her old skin. In the first, the king died, and when she went to find her sister, she discovered a dead, shucked corpse in a chair by their old fireplace, and she clutched the body and wept and wept. In another, the king tired of her, and their old home was vacant and lined with dust, and soon she found herself wandering the land alone.

No matter the story, one thing is the same: She missed her old skin. She felt vulnerable without its age and warmth, like a fox pelt silver with time, and its power of concealment. This taut, ageless woman, her skin gleaming like dew clinging to stem and petal, with a mouth like a pitted cherry, was never left alone. Wherever she went, men followed with their hands and cocks and voices, their hungers and wants and desires. They trampled and pursued.

She hunted down the fairies. She demanded they return her skin to her, and when they laughed and refused, she pulled their heads from their bodies like dandelions. In this way, she walked and searched until the end of her days. Her grief never abated, and when she died and should have become part of the soil, she remained unchanged and immutable as wax.

She is there still, if you know where to look.

©2016 by Carmen Maria Machado. Originally published in Fairy Tale Review. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carmen Maria Machado’s debut short story collection, Her Body and Other Parties, was a finalist for the National Book Award, the Kirkus Prize, the PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize for Debut Fiction, and the National Book Critics Circle’s John Leonard Prize, and the winner of the Bard Fiction Prize. She is a fiction writer, critic, and essayist whose work has appeared in the New Yorker, Granta, Tin House, Guernica, Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy, and elsewhere. She is the Writer in Residence at the University of Pennsylvania, and lives in Philadelphia with her wife.

A Place Without Portals

Adam-Troy Castro | 2160 words

It was only then that she woke up in her nice warm bed and discovered that her entire adventure in the land of Nys had been nothing but a dream.

Everything she had experienced from the very beginning, starting with the ancient soothsayer with the parchment skin and beclouded eyes appearing at her door to brush those gnarled fingers against her cheek and murmur, “Yes, you are the one, you are the chosen one, you are the one destined to defeat the great evil,” her indignant demand that the old man explain himself, and the old man’s infuriating response, “To tell more would be to challenge fate,” and that old man’s immediate disappearance in a cloud of ochre mist, had been the creation of her subconscious imagination; it had been the invention of her sleeping brain, as had been the subsequent invasion of her family home by a squadron of heavily-armored pig creatures with pushed-in scowls and sharpened tusks, smashing their clubs against her furniture and reminding each other that it was their holy mission to go after the only being in the multiverse capable of destroying the great evil, and her own terrified flight up the stairs with them coming after her, howling dread promises about how they would decorate these halls with her entrails as a fit tribute to their master, the dark lord.

She had not barricaded herself in the attic, sweat pouring down her cheeks as they wreaked destruction on the floor below, snarling that they could smell her, that they knew she was still here because the scent of her coward’s blood was still assailing their nostrils, even if their collective brain matter was somehow not up to the task of analyzing the environment and putting together the deduction that she was above them, hugging the floor, afraid to breathe. No. Not a single moment in that incredibly vivid sensory experience had happened.

Nor had she spotted the great golden mirror in this dusty space, an artifact that had never graced the attic before, not on any of her other infrequent forays into this place, which, though stuffed with the bric-a-brac of a lifetime, was still finite and unlikely to harbor an item that large and that distinctive that had nevertheless gone unnoticed.

She had not found herself drawn to that mirror by some primal instinct, even though she normally would have had other things to worry about with all these inhuman monsters roaming the house intent on murdering her; she had not reached out with one tremulous finger to touch it because that would have been the behavior of a toddler to whom mirrors were still novel and mysterious objects and not useful artifacts of her everyday life. She had not found her fingertip and then her hand drawn into its musty surface, and she had not found herself tumbling, over and over, through a skyscape of spiral clouds. All of that had really just been her sleeping mind, adding fresh details to the random imagery already provided, not really having a narrative plan at all, intent only on honoring each new image with its next associative one, without following any specific route.

Honestly, if all that stuff had really happened to her, the waking her and not the dream-protagonist, who was no more than a half-formed and idealized self-image, she would have completely lost her mind by that point. Her sanity would have cracked like a raw egg, spilling out the yolk of a still-forming intellect even before she could have noted how ridiculous it was for this still-hypothetical dark lord to send his pig-soldiers after her in her home in what for argument’s sake could be called another dimension when, as a complacent suburban girl minding her own business and almost never venturing into the attic, she had never been an immediate threat to him, vague prophecy or no. If any of that had really been happening she would have been too busy screaming like a ninny to put together all of this discordant information and object that it would have made much more sense for the fiend to simply send somebody into her house when she was not at home, to smash that mirror, or steal it, or to just burn the place down so that even if the mirror could not be destroyed it would just be one last surviving object in a structure that had otherwise been reduced to blackened frames and ash. She would not have reasoned that all of this would have made more sense than assaulting her with pig barbarians in plate armor and driving her to the exact place where any dark lord fearful of prophecy would not want her to go, which is to say up those stairs and into that attic and beyond the mirrored portal into the very dimension he had conquered and was ruling with an iron fist, the only real worry being the prophecy that she might get there and muck things up for him.

But, of course, in a dream, one’s critical faculties are indefinitely suspended, and one can fly thinking nothing more analytical than, Oh, look, I’m flying, and one can meet dead relatives and think nothing more amazed than, Oh, look, there’s grandpa, and one can be chased into one’s attic and from there into a magic mirror without thinking, The world has gone insane and I might as well go insane with it, but instead only taking all that at face value and thinking, How will I get away, how?

None of this ever really happened to her. She was lying in the same bed throughout, her lids shut, her eyes rolling back and forth rapidly, watching all this like she would watch a CGI-driven blockbuster on a movie screen. She was snoring lightly, wholly safe in her bed, wholly insulated from the intolerable dangers of the world she lived in, not to mention the wholly imaginary and one must also say completely derivative world her gray matter put together out of fairy tales and fantasies and wish-fulfillment, with some help from the half-formed anxieties that we all possess and that she as a young girl had yet to process. She was never befriended by a befuddled tree-man who functioned as deliverer of exposition and who was able to tell her everything she needed to know about this strange new world in which she found herself, including the best route to the castle that famously contained a golden mirror exactly like the one she described, which might, theoretically, provide a portal back home just like the one she’d found in her attic had provided her with a portal here. That never happened, because if it had she would not have taken this rather extreme stretch as gospel, even at her young age; she would have reasoned that if the universe actually were perverse enough to scatter mirrored portals about, then the next one she happened to run into might not be kind enough to deliver her back to her home address but might instead drop her off someplace more deadly, like the surface of the sun. It’s also highly unlikely that if the real her were told in such helpful detail about all the perils that stood between her and this still wholly hypothetical portal back home, places like the Valley of the Grasping Claws, the Labyrinth of Secrets, and the Prairie of The Savage Frog-Men, she would have asked more pressing questions before setting out, gotten more information about the lay of the land, as it were. She was not the smartest girl in the whole wide world, but she was not stupid. She got mostly As with only a few Bs. She was smart. The real her, if she retained any sanity at all, would have asked more pressing questions. But of course, this was a dream, an exercise in the mind making up any old stuff it wanted to, and not an actual adventure written by somebody professionally responsible for making sure that the protagonist always did the next believable thing.

She was awake now, and so the dream that detailed her journey across a treacherous but still highly whimsical landscape that took her and the tree-man through a series of frightening but still largely harmless adventures in which she always appeared to be in danger but was at no point wounded nor ever faced with an enemy who could not be tricked by some clever stratagem, a dream in which the evil conqueror of a vast fantastic landscape was somehow unable to muster enough in the way of ruthlessness to do things like outright slaughter the villages of exotic creatures who sheltered her, and who upon her arrival in his midst didn’t tell his armed guards to just chop her head off right now, which would have been the sensible thing, but instead expounded at length about how unstoppable he was, even though, if he really believed all this, he would not have already put so much stock in the prophecy that precisely this girl was coming to kill him, thus giving her the chance to exploit the one fatal weakness she had found out about along the way, that dream, that dream, which, the nature of REM sleep being what it is, actually all took place in a couple of fleeting seconds and must have been the creation of her waking mind trying to make sense of the random-association images that flitted across her mind at a lower level of consciousness. That dream was now over, having played out in its entirety with her as captive audience, and so none of it really mattered at all. None of it changed her. None of it was an opportunity to learn or grow. None of it would still be detectable in the girl she was or the woman she would grow up to be.

It would be different, of course, if any of this experience had really occurred, had she been tested by forces beyond her usual comprehension in a realm normally beyond her own, if it had permitted her to return to her own realm having found out what she was capable of. It would even be different if, overcome by the impossible conviction that all of this had been more than a dream, she went back up to the attic and found a certain indentation in the layers of dust that precisely matched the imprint of the grand golden mirror she had found and traveled through to experience the adventure of a lifetime. Were she to do that, she would have experienced the wonder of a human being whose very understanding of reality had been challenged, and whose very comprehension of her own limits had been shattered forever. She would have gone on to the rest of a life spent knowing that limitless magic could be found around any corner, and that adventure could always be found by anyone with the courage to look.

But that was not going to happen, because the dream was going to fade completely by the time she finished brushing her teeth, and even if not, even if she did go back to the attic to look for that golden mirror, she would never find that indentation in the dust, because no golden mirror was ever there, and there was never any imperiled magical world nor prophecy of her destiny. This was not a case of It-Was-Just-A-Dream-But-Not-Really. It was a case of It-Was-Just-A-Dream, No-Kidding. It just wasn’t. She really did just dream it.

No, what was going to happen, after she blinked and rebooted the waking knowledge of the world as it was, after she swung her legs over the side of the bed and inserted her feet into their slippers prior to making her way to the bathroom, was that she would do all the things that a suburban American girl in our world had to do to get ready for life as it was, a state of being that included wars in a dozen countries, melting polar ice caps, acidification of the oceans, and the bleaching of coral reefs; a world with some madmen taking their homicidal mania into kindergarten classrooms, some stalking girls her age to savage, and still others in charge of nukes; a world with torture and rape as weapons of war, and a country turning more and more to ripping itself asunder out of racial and political divisions; in short: the end of her own world coming at her from a dozen separate directions faster than even the adults of her real world could comprehend it. This was what she woke to. And she was not fated to wake in another bed, the phantoms of her imagination dispelling to find that all of that awfulness was a dream. It was real. And it was a place without portals.

©2018 by Adam-Troy Castro.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Adam-Troy Castro made his first non-fiction sale to SPY magazine in 1987. His 26 books to date include four Spider-Man novels, 3 novels about his profoundly damaged far-future murder investigator Andrea Cort, and 6 middle-grade novels about the dimension-spanning adventures of young Gustav Gloom. The final installment in the series, Gustav Gloom And The Castle of Fear (Grosset and Dunlap) came out in 2016. Adam’s darker short fiction for grownups is highlighted by his most recent collection, Her Husband’s Hands And Other Stories (Prime Books). Adam’s works have won the Philip K. Dick Award and the Seiun (Japan), and have been nominated for eight Nebulas, three Stokers, two Hugos, and, internationally, the Ignotus (Spain), the Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire (France), and the Kurd-Laßwitz Preis (Germany). He lives in Florida with his wife Judi and either three or four cats, depending on what day you’re counting and whether Gilbert’s escaped this week.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

The Snow Train

Ken Liu | 7050 words

“BIGGEST BLIZZARD TO HIT BOSTON SINCE 1935; 40 INCHES OF SNOW EXPECTED OVERNIGHT.”

—The Boston Globe

School was canceled; the governor announced a state of emergency in anticipation of the storm, and told everyone to stay home or go home early. “We don’t need to have cars stuck on the highways. Be safe.”

Manoj’s foster mother was complaining again.

“The landlord said he’s going to fine us if you don’t take that blanket down.”

She was referring to the woven rectangle hanging over his window: dark blue, with red and yellow concentric diamonds formed from the weft yarn. The blanket was old, worn, and just big enough to cover the small window, or to wrap around a baby. He liked the way it scattered the cold winter light and brought a hint of warmth to his room. It was the only thing he had from his mother, his real mother.

“I don’t see why it bothers him so much.”

“He thinks it looks like some gang sign from the road, and our lease says we have to use white curtains to keep the building looking neat for prospective renters. Look, I don’t hang the laundry on the balcony any more, either. We all have to adapt.”

He took the blanket down, folded it, and put it away. It astounded him that the landlord would get mad at them for using one piece of fabric instead of another to cover his window, simply because one was sold for this purpose and another not. This country was full of such rules.

He did not want to stay in the apartment, did not want to hear his foster mother mutter about how he was by himself so much. But where could he go? There were no neighbors he knew by name, no friends whose homes he could take refuge in. This was America, a land where strangers lived next door to each other, and where a fourteen-year-old boy could not live on his own.

He decided to take the T downtown to play tourist.

• • • •

Manoj thought often about the refugee camp in Nepal: the crowded huts in the jungle, the daily queuing for water, the twice-monthly food delivery convoys, the hot and humid air, and the persistent feeling that life was on hold, that they were simply waiting.

He remembered nothing of the family’s flight from those who wished to kill them because of the land their ancestors had been born in, and he had only the vaguest memories of his parents before they died in the refugee camp. It was a blessing, in a way, because he had no nightmares of those times, as some of the older children in the camp did. But it was also a curse, as he could not call on hatred and thoughts of vengeance to sustain him during the long periods of lassitude and enforced torpor. A refugee camp was not a destination, not a home, just a transit hub where one waited.

He had been passed from family to family, none particularly interested in handling another child who cried at night and had never known what home meant. Finally, one family kept him because they heard that that UN prioritized resettling refugee families with many children.

Boredom meant that everyone had to be creative. A great deal of the supplies they received in camp was useless for their intended purpose. Some donors sent thick blankets and winter coats because they thought Nepal was a “Himalayan Kingdom” and so the refugees must be buried in snow and ice. But the camps were located in the middle of a jungle, and the refugees took those coats and blankets and made them into insulation for the iceboxes. It was difficult getting reliable electricity in the camp, and so the refugees took the donated old laptops—useless—and turned them into batteries for storing up electricity to charge mobile phones. They took the boxes the UN sent supplies in and made them into cisterns and swimming pools for the children.

One of Manoj’s oldest memories involved the day the camp received a giant canvas bag of baseball caps from America—some team whose logo was an elaborate red “B” had donated them. None of the children knew what to do with them, but Manoj figured out how to clip two baseball caps together at the brim and make a cage for fireflies. The light leaking out of the mesh backs was soft and gentle, the color of nostalgia. That night, the camp was filled with children running through the dark, dragging flickering, meteoric tails.

What a wonderful place this America must be, he thought. They make homes for light.

When the waiting ended with the news that he and the family that had taken him in were to be resettled in the United States, it seemed like fate.

• • • •

Even though the city was going to shut down early for the storm, it still bustled with activity. While the oppressive, gray sky loomed overhead, Manoj window-shopped at Faneuil Hall, gazed at the glass-walled federal courthouse, and watched people scurry around the city with grim faces, intent on their business.

His stomach growled. He counted the money in his pocket and decided that his best bet was to head to Chinatown for lunch.

Chinatown, the very existence of the place was a mockery of the high regard Americans had for their own country. While everyone congratulated each other over the election of a black president, here was a patch of the city, segregated, marked apart, a legacy of how people did not feel comfortable if they weren’t classified and put into their neat boxes. He had taken note of how the composition of the riders in the subway cars changed depending on the branch of the T he rode on and the stations the train stopped at, how the complexions of the people who sat in offices in the gleaming towers differed from those who cleaned the offices and took out the trash and brought them food, and above all, how nobody wanted to talk about these things.

But at least everyone else seemed to have a people, a place they were from.

He shivered—he would never get used to these winters—pulled the coat tighter around himself, and pushed open the door to a restaurant that looked cheap enough.

• • • •

On a winter’s morning two years ago, Manoj and his foster family were brought to a suburb of Boston and told that this was their new home. The cold air had surprised him; he wished he had the useless coat from those donors.

That chilly feeling had continued in school.

With little knowledge of English, he had felt—not exactly deaf and mute, but—incomplete, stupid, inadequate. He sat quietly in class, counting down the minutes until dismissal, the incomprehensible goings on around him like some elaborate folk dance. He hated having to smile all the time, indicating that he did not comprehend; he hated having to pantomime like some idiot to make his few wants understood; he hated the giggles and whispers of the other students.

His foster family was no help at all. They kept him fed and warm, but they also had young children of their own to care for. Besides, the struggles of a boy in school hardly seemed as important as surviving and adapting, as starting a new life.

After a year, the natural resiliency of youth and many hours of television finally taught him enough English that he no longer felt entirely lost, but this hardly brought him the relief he had expected.

“Where are you from?” the other students asked.

He didn’t know what answer to give. “Bhutan” was listed on his documents, but that was a land of which he had no memories (and which he had been told had not wanted him). Nepal was the place he had spent the most time in, but could he really be said to be “from” there when all he had seen was the inside of a refugee camp? And what was the point of giving either answer when his classmates would not know where to look on a map for both?

“Tibet,” he said, because that seemed like a place everyone knew.

“So you’re a Buddhist? You pray to the Dalai Lama?”

Again, he was stumped. He had deciphered enough of Social Studies to see that Americans liked to classify and label things: you were either Christian or Muslim or Jewish or Buddhist or some other capitalized word, either black or white, either American or foreign. But the stories of his childhood—a mélange of heroes, gods, buddhas, avatars, and spirits—did not fit easily into the categories delineated in the textbooks.

Why does it matter so much where I’m from? he thought. The answer to that question had made him into a boy without a country in the first place.

Then came the bombs on that spring day in Boston, when people were supposed to be running a marathon. Later, it was discovered that the bombs were planted by a pair of brothers, foreigners who had come to America after escaping war in their homeland.

“You’re a refugee, too, aren’t you?” one of his classmates asked.

He wished he were back in the camp in Nepal then. But he understood that in America, you could not let others see how you really felt. This was a land that did not respect those who showed fear.

“Coming here and living off our money,” the boy said. “Hating us. Hating America.”

So he fought instead. He fought desperately, hopelessly, like how he had fought back at the camp sometimes when other children teased him about no family wanting him. He felt no pain until afterwards, until the teachers had separated them, until he had been told that he was being suspended, and then expelled.

Do I hate America? he thought. He could not tell. He was certain, though, that he did not feel grateful.

He switched schools. He fought more. His foster parents beat him because they thought it would help. He hardened the shell around himself. He realized that in America, school was very much like a prison or refugee camp, and he began to live his life as though he was back in Nepal, as every day turned into a game of waiting: waiting for the bell to ring, waiting for the bus to drop him off, waiting for dinner, for night, for sleep, until another day of waiting could begin.

This was not his city, not home.

• • • •

After a bowl of fried rice, he stayed at his table, sipping tea. Through the door of the restaurant, he could see snow falling in thick drifts, though the wind hadn’t picked up yet. Businesses all around were shuttering their doors and the street was filled with crowds streaming home. One by one, the customers around him got up and left.

He imagined the city in an hour or two: an empty metropolis in the storm. He smiled at the vision—suddenly, the people who normally filled these streets, never doubting their right to strut through them, were fleeing as refugees. If he stayed behind, he would, for once, not feel out of place.

The idea seemed so compelling that his face flushed.

When the owner of the restaurant left for a moment to check on the kitchen, he got up, left his money on the table, and went into the basement, where the restrooms were. He opened the broom closet and stepped in, pulling the door shut behind him.

In the darkness, he waited. Overhead, he could hear the owner and his staff moving the tables and chairs about, cleaning the floors. Someone came down and used the toilet, and then went back upstairs. Tired from standing, he sat down on the floor and tried not to take deep breaths as the air was saturated with the odor of musty rags.

He fell asleep.

• • • •

By the time he woke up, total silence engulfed him. Heart pounding, he pulled open the closet door. The darkness was broken by a few green LEDs at the top of the stairs—the cheap stereo system that the owner used to pipe Cantopop into the restaurant.

He climbed up the stairs, and he could now hear the howling of the wind outside, like some great beast, and he felt the walls of the building tremble.

The glass panes on the front door were completely blocked by ice and snow and only the faintest rays of light made their way through. He tried the door but saw that it was guarded by an elaborate series of locks. He didn’t see a way to open it from the inside without a key.

Undaunted, he felt his way towards the kitchen, bumping into tables and knocking over chairs. The back door, which opened onto an alleyway, was much simpler, and he unlocked it without much trouble.

He pushed against the door, and it refused to budge—the snow accumulated outside was too thick. He leaned his body against the door and strained, and felt the door give way. A crack opened, and cold air streamed in and sliced at his neck like a knife; he regretted not wearing a thicker coat.

A sudden gust of wind slammed against the door and knocked him off his feet. He laughed at himself, got up and tried again. This time, when the door opened, he did not let up but continued to strain against it, ignoring the cold wind, until the door opened enough for him to squeeze out.

A dense snowy blanket smothered the straight highways that followed the route of colonial postal riders, the twisty city streets that inherited the paths taken by grazing cows centuries ago, the parks of the Emerald Necklace, the red bricks of Cambridge sidewalks, the frozen harbor, and the Charles River. Boston was a city in the grip of winter, a construction of ice and snow.

Exhilaration filled his heart. He was alone in the city, sole master of this inhospitable domain.

He wanted to shout his joy, but as soon as he opened his mouth, an icy blast of wind punched into his throat, and he tumbled back into the snow. Darkness; then the cold seeped in from every gap and opening in his clothing. Panicked, he struggled to get up, but it was like swimming in quicksand. By the time he finally managed to get up, he could feel the snow and ice that had gotten into his clothes against his skin, tingling, and then numbing.

He was truly alone in the city. He imagined families huddled inside their houses and apartments, praying that the heat would not fail. He imagined the homeless being shepherded to shelters earlier. The wind, like a mighty river flooding over an obstreperous pile of rocks, angrily divided around the skyscrapers of Boston proper and turned into tributaries, channels, vortexes of sub-zero air. Snow, whipped up by the moaning wind, filled the space between buildings until it was impossible to see even a few feet ahead.

The thrill in his heart cooled, and fear precipitated like growing icicles. He realized that he was in trouble.

Thigh-deep in snow, he plodded ahead, stumbling with every step. The swirling flurries assaulted his face, and he couldn’t see any lit windows around him. Would strangers hear him if he pled for help? Almost by instinct, he made his way towards the T stop, hoping against hope that the trains were still running.

His feet, soaked through, felt numb inside the shoes. Wind pried open his collar and forced itself between the gap in his lapels. A strange hush filled his ears between gusts of wind, a foreboding silence that made his heart race, like the stillness of the transfixed crowd in the camp as they waited to hear their destination.

He felt guilty that his foster mother was going to worry, not knowing where he was—she might not have been terribly warm to him, but she had always tried to keep him safe, and he knew that was not a trivial thing in this world. He pulled the coat tighter around himself and pushed on. When did the governor say was the last T train? He couldn’t remember.

Finally, he was at the T stop. The grille was open, and the inside of the station was lit. Grateful, he pushed the doors open and stumbled inside.

The escalator wasn’t running, but that didn’t always mean the trains weren’t. The stairs were muddy and slippery from melted snow, and he carefully made his way down, glad of the warmth.

The platforms were empty. He glanced at the LED display that was supposed to show the expected arrival time of the next train: blank, as barren as the platforms.

He had missed the last train.

The silence in the vast underground space seemed to gain weight and substance. He told his racing heart to slow down, to not panic.

He sat down on the bench. He would have to sleep here tonight. He closed his eyes and waited—he was good at waiting. This was not very different from being in class or being at home.

Now that he was no longer moving, the temperature in the place seemed to drop. Was the heat turned off? How cold would it get down in here? Perhaps it would have been better to stay inside the restaurant, where he might have figured out how to keep the heat on overnight?

Then the station lights went out. And he was plunged into complete darkness. Blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy.

He heard skittering noises. Rats live down in the tracks! He climbed onto the bench and sat on the back, straining his eyes. Fear and cold seized his heart, and he could not tell which was which.

A rumbling came in the distance, a grinding, clanging noise that echoed off the walls. He strained in the direction it came from, and a dim light, like dawn, appeared around the curve in the narrow tunnel.

He got off the bench and went up to the edge of the platform. A breeze from the tunnel—warm like the heat of an opened oven—brushed against his face. The light grew brighter, the clanging louder. Abruptly, like a sunrise, a brilliant glow appeared from around the bend in the tunnel, and sparks lit up the tracks underneath.

He was saved. He had been in time for the last train after all.

Afraid that the operator might not see him and fail to stop, he jumped up and down on the platform, waving his arms and screaming. “I’m here! I’m here!” And then he stopped, too stunned to continue to shout.

A metallic behemoth, like some steam-powered monstrous engine that could only exist in imagination, puff-puff-puffed its way out of the tunnel. A great, blaring light, a miniature sun, shone from its forehead like a cyclopean eye and lit up the platform, bright as day. In front of the machine, hovering close to the rails, was an elephantine ground-sniffing snout that resembled an oversized vacuum cleaner’s nozzle. It roared like the engine of an airplane, and pumped out torrents of hot air that made it almost impossible for him to remain standing near the edge of the platform. The locomotive—nothing like the clean, electric T cars—belched acrid smoke that smelled of kerosene and made Manoj cough and his eyes tear up.

Abruptly, the roaring of the engine ceased, and with a long, clanging, scraping sigh, the machine slowed down, stopped, and revealed a train of T cars behind it. The doors slid open with a light thud.

He stared at the empty interior of the car in front of him: the same plastic bucket seats lit by fluorescent light; the same mottled pattern on the floor designed to hide stains; the same T map with red, green, orange, blue, and purple lines radiating away from Boston proper like the twisted strands of a web or the collapsed spokes around a hub. It looked just like a normal T train but for the hulking monster that pulled it. He was dumbfounded.

“Are you going to get in?” asked a deep voice from the front of the train.

Manoj looked over and saw a man’s head, topped with a fedora with a crimson hatband, poking out of the window in the locomotive. In the harsh light that reflected from the tiled walls, Manoj could not tell his age: One moment, he seemed to be as old as the decades that seeped from the cracks in the tunnel walls, the next, he seemed as young as the fresh paint on the train car.

“Come on,” the man said again. “The snow train needs to keep moving.”

• • • •

“Who are you?” Manoj managed to ask.

He was standing inside the operator’s compartment, which looked to him like the cockpit of some fantastic plane cobbled together with parts from different eras. There were rusty valves, jointed metal levers, and gauges with swinging needles and glass covers that looked yellow and brittle; LED lights arrayed in grids blinking madly and rhythmically like a vision of the future imagined in the sixties; subdued, flat computer screens that displayed maps, crawling lines, and scrolling text and numbers; even a roll of paper tape where a clacking printing head picked out faint letters formed with dots.

Hot air blasted from a grill overhead, keeping at bay the cold wind coming in through the open windows.

“You don’t recognize me?” asked the man, smiling. “I thought they did a pretty good job on those T passes.”

There was another seat next to the man, but Manoj didn’t feel comfortable enough to sit. He was afraid to touch the wrong lever or button, and so he remained standing.

Manoj took out his wallet. The credit card-sized “CharlieCard” depicted the side of a subway train with a man in a suit jacket leaning out. The wind whipped his crimson tie up and back like the tail of a kite, and he was trying to hold onto his fedora with one hand while holding up a green rectangle—cash, a pass, a little green book?

The face in the portrait was indistinct: a swirl, a dab, a quarter of an arc; perhaps intended to represent an eyebrow, an eye, and some kind of mustache. Manoj had never noticed how eerie the portrait was.

The train operator continued to smile as he glanced over at Manoj. His hands deftly played over the instrument panel, pulling at a lever here, punching a button there, spinning a dial on the other side.

Manoj looked at the man again, at his fedora with its crimson hatband, his white shirt with buttoned collar, his gray suit and crimson tie.

“You’re Charlie?” Manoj asked, feeling absurd. “You’re real?”

The man laughed. “You see me, don’t you?”

“That’s not what I meant. They hired you to dress up like this—like a mascot or something?”

“Not exactly,” said Charlie. “But enough about me. What do you call yourself?”

“The King of America, obviously,” said Manoj.

Chalie laughed, tipped his hat, and went back to driving the train.

“What kind of weird train is this?” asked Manoj.

“A snow train,” said Charlie. “Whenever there’s a big snow storm, the MBTA has to run snow trains overnight, after everyone’s gone home, to keep the tracks free of ice and snow. But my train is used only for the biggest storms, the kind that regular snow trains can’t clear. You saw the contraption up front? It’s made from the engine of an old jet fighter from the Korean War. The engine may have been with the T for almost as long as me, but it can still melt through the toughest ice.”

“You are working on a night like this?” Manoj was impressed, though he couldn’t take the man’s preposterous claim to be driving a train with a jet engine up front seriously.

“I have to,” said Charlie. “The storm is so bad that none of the regular MBTA operators can do the job. If I don’t run the snow train, by the time the storm is over, the T will be completely paralyzed.”

“I didn’t realize the MBTA made their mascot work so hard.” Manoj muttered. “So what’s your real story? Are you one of those guys whose whole life revolves around the job?” As a matter of fact, Manoj suspected that he was looking at a homeless man who happened to find the keys to the train and was now joyriding the T to stay warm.

Charlie turned to give him an appraising look. “You’re not from Boston?”

There it was again, the question about where he was from. “No.”

“Seems like most people in the city these days aren’t from Boston.”

“So what?” For a people who claimed to be welcoming to strangers, Americans sure cared about the distinction between born here and from away a lot.

Charlie looked at him, smiled, and continued on in his calm tone, “Well, if you had been born here, you would have heard this song while you grew up.”

Did he ever return?
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearn’d
He may ride forever ’neath the streets of Bostonb
He’s the man who never returned.

“What are you singing?”

“It’s called ‘Charlie on the MTA.’”

“The song’s about you?”

Charlie nodded. “It started back in 1949, when Walter O’Brien was running for mayor of Boston. He couldn’t afford radio advertising, and so he drove around in a truck and played campaign songs from a loudspeaker.”

“That must have made him popular.”

Charlie chuckled. “The citizens of Boston fined him ten dollars.”

“So how did you get to be in this song?”

“One day, I got on the MTA—that’s the old name for the T—at Kendall Square heading for Jamaica Plain. When I tried to get off, the conductor told me that I owed a nickel.”

“Wait, you didn’t pay when you got on?”

“Of course I did.”

“So why did you need to pay again?”

“Oh, the fare on the trains was a mess back then. They had all sorts of complicated rules and schedules and it filled up a whole booklet. They had just had a fare hike that made you pay an extra nickel if you wanted to get out at a station that was above ground.”

“That’s dumb.”

“If you knew why they’d hiked the fare, you’d think it worse than dumb.”

“Why?”

“The subway was owned privately back then, but the owners couldn’t make enough money. So they managed to get the city to buy them out with a huge bag of cash to be paid by the people of Boston. The MTA then raised the fare so the poor could pay the rich.”

“That’s unfair.”

“I thought so, too. Since I didn’t give him the nickel, the conductor wouldn’t let me off.”

“So what did you do?”

“What could I do? I just stayed on the train.”

“For how long?”

“I never got off.”

“That’s absurd,” scoffed Manoj.

“Didn’t you hear my song? That’s what it said. My wife Libby had to come to Scollay Square at quarter past two every day to hand me my lunch through an open window as my train rumbled by her.”

“Why couldn’t she give you a nickel?”

“I didn’t want one; it was the principle of the thing.”

“And you really never got out?”

“That’s right. I just stuck around.”

Manoj was about to protest how the logistics of this story couldn’t possibly have worked when Charlie gestured at him to wait. “Hold on. We’re about to come out from underground.”

They emerged from the tunnel, and the rumbling of the train turned hollow and dissipated in the open air. It was impossible to see far beyond the windows obscured by the swirling patterns of the snow.

Charlie pulled on a lever and the train slowed down. Manoj peered through the windshield, kept barely clear by heated wipers moving in a frenzy, and saw a wall of packed snow looming ahead, almost half as tall as the train itself. The tracks disappeared under it. Instead of a train, it was like they were sailing through the Arctic and had come upon an iceberg that blocked the way.

“Now you get to see my old friend in action,” said Charlie. “She guzzles fuel like crazy, but they don’t call her Snowzilla for nothing.”

Charlie pushed some buttons, spun some dials, pulled back on a lever slowly, and a deep, bone-quaking roar began to build inside the train. The entire engine shook like a rocket about to be launched.

Manoj had never heard anything so loud. He wanted to cover his ears but realized that it would be useless: He was hearing, no, feeling the roar in his bones. He was defenseless. So he relaxed his body and gave in to the noise and motion, grabbing onto a section of vertical piping that ran near him. As he looked through his trembling field of vision towards the front, he saw the air shimmering above the giant vacuum cleaner nozzle, and the swirling snowflakes, like a swarm of moths diving towards a flame, vanished in the hot, shimmery air. The wall of snow in front reflected a bright, red glow.

Charlie had not lied. The train really did have a jet engine strapped to the front.

Charlie eased up on another lever, and the train began to slowly move forward. Manoj watched as the wall of snow softened like heated wax, caved in, and then crumbled like a calving glacier in the heat from the jet engine. The tracks emerged from under the snow, and Manoj could see the flickering flame tongues inside Snowzilla’s maw reflected against their mirror-like surface. As the train moved forward relentlessly, Snowzilla dug a ditch out of the snow, and twin rivulets of meltwater flowed in torrents next to the tracks.

It was like riding inside some monstrous machine in that Jules Verne movie Manoj saw once. It was fantastic and impossible and absurd and awesome all at the same time.

• • • •

The jet engine’s roar sputtered a few times and became uneven.

Manoj looked over at Charlie, whose intense gaze was focused on one of the dials. Manoj saw that the needle on the dial was nearing the left edge, in the red zone.

Then the engine sputtered a few more times; Charlie punched a few more buttons and spun some wheels, his movements becoming more frantic. The engine’s roar rose to a crescendo and then turned into a series of sputters that culminated in a loud choking sound, and then, complete silence.

Charlie had to pull back on a lever in a hurry and the train lurched to a stop. After the continuous roar from the jet engine, the sudden silence seemed deafening.

Manoj didn’t have to ask any questions. He knew what had happened.

He opened the door of the cockpit and climbed out. Charlie stood at the top of the ladder but didn’t follow.

They were deep in a canyon of snow. Behind them was a tunnel that Snowzilla had dug with her fiery breath; in front of them was a solid wall of ice and snow. Meanwhile, snow continued to fall from above, and the wind howled overhead like wolves.

“You didn’t carry any extra fuel?” asked Manoj, shouting up at Charlie to be heard above the wind.

“We’ve never quite had a storm like this,” said Charlie.

“What if we climb out to a gas station nearby?”

Charlie shook his head. “Snowzilla requires jet fuel, and in any event, I can’t leave the train.”

Manoj looked up at him, incredulous.

“I told you my story.”

“You really can’t leave the T?”

“Look at me. How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Fifty?”

“When I got on that MTA train back in 1949, I was already fifty.”

Manoj felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. Half an hour earlier, he would have considered this just another one of Charlie’s quirky jokes. But now, after all he had seen and heard, he was no longer so sure that Charlie was just an eccentric T employee who made up a crazy story. In the flickering light of the operator’s compartment, Charlie’s face seemed to flicker between youth and age, grow as indistinct as his portrait on the T pass.

“Are you a ghost?”

Charlie shrugged. “I guess you could say that. I prefer to think that the laws of physics suspended around me sometime back in 1949 and never got around to re-applying themselves, but there are other rules that I do have to follow: I exist as long as I stay within MBTA property.”

Charlie leaned and extended his hand outside the door. When it was about two feet from the train, the fingers grew translucent and Manoj could see the snow falling behind them. He pulled his hand back.

It didn’t seem useful to stand around in the snow. Manoj climbed back into the train.

“We’ll have to wait it out,” said Charlie mournfully. “Maybe tomorrow they can dig us out. At least we can stay warm.”

Manoj noticed that the hot air blasting out of the grill overhead continued unabated. “How do we still have heat?”

“That runs off the electricity from the third rail,” said Charlie. “Same as the train itself.”

Manoj considered this.

“We can use it to melt the snow.”

And now it was Charlie’s turn to look at him incredulously.

“But that’s not what it’s intended for.”

Manoj laughed. This man—ghost, whatever—didn’t think it strange to spend a night in a storm huddled in a train engine; didn’t consider it odd to be still alive more than six decades after getting on a subway train; didn’t believe it to be unusual to smash through ice and snow in a train with a jet engine strapped to the front; but he had trouble thinking that something could be used for another purpose.

“Where I’m from,” said Manoj, “if we used everything the way they were intended to be used, we’d be dead.”

“It’s a good thing that you’re not from here then,” said Charlie.

• • • •

It took Manoj more than an hour to climb through the snow to a nearby store that he could break into—the massive dangling icicles functioned well as battering rams against glass, he found out—get the supplies he needed, leave a note behind with Charlie’s signature that promised MBTA would pay for everything, and make his way back to the train, dragging an inflatable kiddie pool behind him as a cargo sled.

He was exhausted but he couldn’t rest yet. It took them another hour of work to cobble together Manoj’s vision. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and told Charlie, “Give it a go.”

Charlie flipped the switch to turn back on the heat in the train. They had turned it off while Manoj was working, and the temperature in the compartment had dropped precipitously.

Except the hot air didn’t flow into the compartments. Manoj had covered the heating grills in the train—the cars as well as the engine—with funnels jury-rigged from tents, sleeping bags, winter coats, and anything else that provided good insulation. The funnels directed the hot air into thick hoses that all came together in front of the engine in a single bundle tied together with heavy-duty tape. This hydra, as thick around as Charlie’s midsection, required all of Manoj’s strength to lift and keep in place as the hoses wriggled behind them and the hot air blasted out of the nozzles.

Manoj stepped resolutely forward and aimed this new Snowzilla at the wall of ice and snow. It wasn’t as dramatic as the fiery breath of the jet engine, of course, but, slowly, the icicles wilted and the snow began to give way.

With a happy whoop, Charlie inched the train forward, keeping pace with the slow progress of Manoj as he blasted a path forward in the snow.

• • • •

Finally, they emerged from the wall of snow and ice onto a clear part of the tracks. The snow had stopped falling, and the sky was exceptionally clear, studded with countless brilliant stars.

Manoj looked around and realized that they were on a bridge over the Charles River, and the buildings of Cambridge beckoned from the other side.

“How did we end up here on the Red Line?” asked Manoj. “We were on the Orange Line.”

“Oh, I don’t care much about maps,” said Charlie. “All the lines need clearing, so I just drive Snowzilla wherever she’s needed.”

Manoj was beyond that’s impossible by this point. What was crossing from one set of T tracks to another compared to having ridden a fire-breathing monster through a storm?

“It looks like we’ve cleared the last part of the tracks,” Charlie said. “From here it should be easy to bring you wherever you need to go and then for me to get back to the depot.”

“You never finished your story. How did that guy—O’Brien—end up making a song about you?”

Charlie laughed. “As you can imagine, I wasn’t the only one who was mad about a few rich guys trying to rob the rest of us with that fare hike. We formed a party, the Progressives, and O’Brien was our candidate. He was going to fight for the working men and women who rode the trains and depended on it.”

“Did he win?”

“Not even close. He came in last out of five candidates. They smeared us, and him, as Communists.”

“Who won?”

“John B. Hynes.”

“Like in Hynes Convention Center?”

“That’s right. O’Brien moved back to Maine, where he was from, and ended up as a librarian and ran a bookstore till he died.”

Manoj reflected on this. It seemed such a typical story about America: the local, the established, the wealthy just kept on winning.

“Where’s home?” asked Charlie.

Manoj was just about to speak, but stopped. Home seemed such a heavy word. Was the apartment where he stayed with his foster parents and siblings really home? Was this city, this country, this cold, unforgiving place where people always asked him where he was from home?

Charlie waited, and when it became obvious that no answer would be forthcoming, he nodded and started the train again.

As the train rumbled along the tracks, Charlie seemed to be speaking to himself as he said, “Do you know the real reason for why I never left?”

Manoj said nothing.

Charlie went on, as though Manoj had asked. “The song wasn’t true, not entirely, anyway. I had plenty of money in my pocket, but it didn’t feel right to give it up. This city was my home, but somehow, somewhere along the way, it had turned into a faceless machine where everyone submitted to paying just to get off the train. We were fighting to take back our home, and we weren’t even allowed to use a loudspeaker to talk to our neighbors. I was a stranger in my own land. So I put my foot down and said no.”

Manoj still said nothing.

“I’ve seen the city change a lot in the time I’ve been riding the trains: First it shrank, then it grew; the whites left, and others moved in; new words, new accents, new languages; people lost their jobs, moved away, and were replaced by others doing new jobs; neighborhoods got wrecked until they became trendy enough to be rebuilt, and the cycle started again.

“Sometimes, I think Boston is not one city, but many cities that just happen to be forced to share one space. There’s one city for the bankers and investment managers and lawyers; another city for all the garbage haulers and custodians and cleanup crews; one city for the young and beautiful; another for the old and sickly; one for those who know that they belong here; and another for those who seem always in doubt. The city belongs to all of them and none of them; no one is ever truly at home.”

He paused, looked over at Manoj, and seeing no reaction, went on.

“But the people of all these Bostons ride the T. This is the only place where they are forced to share one bit of space and breathe the same air: rich, poor, light skinned, dark, different tongues, different ages, different clothes, different ideas. This is a place for those who are passing through, a hub.

“This city wouldn’t be the same without any of its people, and even if they don’t talk to each other, this is the one place where they have to acknowledge each other. If you and I hadn’t been here tonight, the tracks wouldn’t be cleared and the trains wouldn’t run tomorrow. Everyone leaves a mark on this city, even if they don’t know it, even if they think they’re just passing through, that this isn’t home.

“And I thought: Well, if no one calls the T home, then I shall make it my home. This is my place. This is where I’m from.”

“I think most people would say that’s not really the T’s intended purpose,” said Manoj.

“Being at home means you don’t care what other people think.”

Manoj looked at Charlie. What an American ideal that was. People didn’t always adhere to it, but it was a beautiful ideal nonetheless.

He relaxed and let out a long-held breath. He sat down in the other chair in the cockpit and put his feet up on the instrument panels.

They said no more as the train rumbled on in the darkness. Outside, the snow and ice seemed to make the world anew, a frozen, blank page, and the heat and noise of the train left a long, gleaming mark behind, a path that promised nothing and everything.

©2016 by Ken Liu. Originally published in Genius Loci. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ken Liu is an author of speculative fiction, as well as a translator, lawyer, and programmer. A winner of the Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy awards, he has been published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s, Analog, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Strange Horizons, among other places. Ken’s debut novel, The Grace of Kings (2015), is the first volume in a silkpunk epic fantasy series, The Dandelion Dynasty. It won the Locus Best First Novel Award and was a Nebula finalist. He subsequently published the second volume in the series, The Wall of Storms (2016) as well as a collection of short stories, The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories (2016). He also wrote the Star Wars novel, The Legends of Luke Skywalker (2017). In addition to his original fiction, Ken also translated numerous literary and genre works from Chinese to English. His translation of The Three-Body Problem, by Liu Cixin, won the Hugo Award for Best Novel in 2015, the first translated novel ever to receive that honor. He also translated the third volume in Liu Cixin’s series, Death’s End (2016) and edited the first English-language anthology of contemporary Chinese science fiction, Invisible Planets (2016). He lives with his family near Boston, Massachusetts.

Nitrate Nocturnes

Ruth Joffre | 7620 words

Fiona’s timer read 40 33 04 21 53 08. Years, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. Her first girlfriend had done the math one day in bed. “You’ll be sixty-four when you meet your soul mate. I’ll be twenty-two,” the girl said with a gesture that revealed her frail, luminous wrist, which was lit from within, like a lightning bug. Fiona watched her own timer tick down through her girlfriend’s hair, feeling as though she were trying to catch up to the world, as though she’d always be one step behind. One day, she would reach completion: 00 00 00 00 00 00. Her timer would ring out, as if she had just won a sweepstakes at a supermarket, and the numbers inside her wrist would flash repeatedly before fading quietly into her skin. But the timer could not tell her if she would be happy. Oftentimes, soul mates, having spent their entire lives waiting for completion, had to reconcile their fantasies of the future with a bleak and unsatisfying reality. Not all soul mates were immediately compatible, and not all soul mates fell in love. It could take years, decades—a whole lifetime, even—just to understand why. Why this person, of all people? It was all so unfair, Fiona whined, watching her girlfriend’s timer. 06 29 05 14 50 07. 06. 05.

“You’re just jealous,” her girlfriend said with an ugly self-assurance.

Fiona should have broken up with the girl right then, but sixty-four years was a long time. Much too long to be alone, she knew. It was easier to stay—to wait—when there was someone to hold on to late at night, when the weight of years pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe. None of her lovers were meant for her, but she collected them all the same, cherishing what little time she had with them. And then she let them go, as if releasing paper lanterns at a wedding. She had watched with envy as her first girlfriend met her soul mate, learned his name, proceeded to undo him—to uproot everything he thought he’d figured out about himself (his wants, his desires)—and then seeded him with her favorite things, transforming him into the kind of person who wore boat shoes and drank good whiskey alone because he was ashamed. She’d always liked broken men. Fiona remembered this, just as she remembered the peculiarities of her first boyfriend’s laugh, the imperial red jacket that attracted her to a one-night stand, and the strains of the jazz band in the background as one of her good friends confessed that she didn’t know how to love her soul mate, because in her heart she’d been expecting someone different—quieter, kinder, cleaner. Fiona had loved them all with a kind of happiness that brings with it a relief from longing. For her own sake, she’d learned not to isolate herself and to instead seek solace from others in a similar situation.

Her current boyfriend was Marcus, a dark, dispassionate Southerner with a resonant voice Fiona often described as oaky, like red wine. His timer read: 25 16 08 07 49 52. He’d be fifty-two, just ten days shy of fifty-three, when he found his soul mate, whom he imagined as a tall, willowy woman with gray hairs and pink reading glasses that matched the healthy color of her tongue. He was getting a PhD in sociology and intended to be a tenured professor by the age of forty, so that when he finally met his soul mate he would have his half of their life already prepared. Fiona met him at a graduate student mixer in the fall of her third year. She knew just from the calm way he fixed himself a drink without bothering to glance at her timer that he was like her: a long-gamer. He smiled when he finally noticed it. He led her outside, where they sat in the shadow of the barn where the mixer was being held. “It’s curious,” he said. “These short-timers act as if they’re on the verge of unlocking all life’s mysteries, like they’re winning some sort of race toward maturity. But most of them can’t fathom what it’s like to wait. They’re too impatient.”

Fiona leaned back against the soft hay the owners had left out for show. “My mother used to tell me a short timer isn’t necessarily a blessing. My father was an alcoholic, and when she met him she was at some dive in Pittsburgh celebrating her twenty-first birthday. He said she just kept crying: ‘He’s so old. What am I supposed to do with him?’ She wasn’t prepared. None of them are.” Marcus nodded, asking if it ended badly. When she told him that it had, he laid his hand quietly on hers and let her decide if she wanted the weight of it—the weight of his arms, his hips, their firm curves nestled between her legs as if he had all the time in the world. She’d invited him into her life in spite of his reputation for treating women like amusing diversions. Fiona had heard the story of a girl who went mad for him, having somehow managed to convince herself despite all the evidence to the contrary that their timers were wrong and Marcus was the one. He ended up having to get a restraining order. The experience left him wary of relationships, aware that women could break against him, like waves against a cliff. One night, he confessed all this to Fiona, then added that he liked her because she wouldn’t break. She would outlast him, he said. When the years had worn him down as thin and soft as tissue, Fiona would still be standing, like a lighthouse on the shore.

When Fiona decided to move in with Marcus in the fall, her mother had misgivings. “It’s a little early, don’t you think? Most people don’t settle in for the long wait until thirty.”

Fiona was making dinner at the time, throwing lentils into a stockpot to simmer.

Her mother heard the clattering of pots. She sighed. “He can’t even cook, can he?”

“He’s just busy right now. He’s preparing for his A exam.”

“Don’t you think you’d be happier with a woman? That’s what you always wanted.”

“I’m not unhappy with Marcus. He’s safe. I need that right now.”

Her mother paused. “Has it been bad?”

With a sigh, Fiona told her that most of the people in her program had already found their soul mates. One of them had asked his classmates to help him film the last hour of his wait. Six of them circled around, holding booms, pushing dollies, watching his face as he strutted through the halls of the performing arts building, smiling like an idiot. Fiona had criticized the project, called it self-indulgent and vacuous, something better suited for YouTube than a senior thesis, but when Fiona said this one of her classmates groaned, “God, why do you have to shit on everything? Just because it’s sentimental doesn’t mean it’s stupid.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Fiona’s mother said. “You’re the most sentimental person I know.”

“Tell them that.” She sighed, stirring the lentils. “I’ve started to hate going to class.”

“It just sounds like they got a bad batch this year. Next year will be better.”

“Next year five of them are going to meet their soul mates.”

“Are they going to film those, too?”

Fiona laughed once but otherwise didn’t respond.

“You know what you used to say to me, Fi? You said, ‘Mama, I know who my soul mate is. I know her name.’” This started when she was a little girl and first took up watercolor. Her mother didn’t understand her sudden fascination with art and music, because before that she’d never even been interested in finger painting. When asked why the sudden change, Fiona fixed her mother with a long, baleful look and said, “This is how I meet her, Mama. This is the best way,” as if she’d considered all their possible futures together and determined that this one would be the best, the happiest. “That kind of conviction is rare, Fi. Don’t forget it.”

Fiona nodded and said goodbye, but the truth was she didn’t remember saying that. What prompted it? What had she known that her timer hadn’t? It frightened Fiona to think that there was or could be more than one possible future. Was this, in fact, Fiona’s best possible life?

Her timer read: 40 33 03 16 23 08. 07. 06. 05.

Fiona finished cooking the soup and invited Marcus over. Then, when he had come in her mouth and fallen asleep on the sofa, she reconsidered the numbers pulsing on her wrists. In them, Fiona could see her future laid out, like a series of milestones hidden inside a digital alarm clock: in one month, she and Marcus would sign a lease on a new apartment for the fall semester; in just three weeks, she would have midterms; in April, she would fly down to Mississippi with Marcus, where his family would either approve or disapprove of his choice in a waiting partner; and then nothing, absolutely nothing. Darkness stretched out before her like a sheet, obscuring everything, even her timer. How long would the darkness last, she wondered. Late at night, when the campus emptied, Fiona climbed down into one of the gorges, bringing only a video camera and a thermos of coffee. Earlier that semester, fences had been installed on all the bridges on campus to prevent students from jumping off. Fiona’s latest project was to film these students from below, zooming in until their faces blurred together into a single, tremulous mass. Fiona understood their fear, the way it circled them like an owl gliding toward its prey. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the thought that she had taken a wrong turn, lost sight of what was most important in life. She was on the verge of ending things with Marcus when her timer began speeding up.

• • • •

It started in class: a brief flash, immediately followed by a sound like a hiccup in her right wrist when her timer whirred into its new position: 40 23 06 19 47 08. One hour had been lopped off her original time, bringing her incrementally—and unexpectedly—nearer her completion date of 2047. Her friend Siobhan, sitting next to her, hurried to explain what happened to their curious classmates, and their teacher, a prim blond woman in her mid to late fifties, lifted Fiona’s arm, scrutinizing it carefully. “I’ve heard of this happening,” their teacher said, sounding disappointed, because Fiona’s numbers had stopped whirring and they wouldn’t be able to film it in real time. “I know there are researchers in Canada who’ve filmed a man’s timer growing longer, but no one to my knowledge has managed to capture the reverse phenomenon—yet.” Though it happened four more times during that class, none of them aimed a camera at her wrist, not because she would’ve objected but because they didn’t honestly believe it would happen again. Each time her wrist hiccupped, Fiona jumped, and her classmates gazed at her in wonder, as if she’d prove interesting after all. She was invited to a party that night, to everyone’s surprise. She didn’t bring Marcus.

Her timer had shaved off forty-three hours by the time she arrived at the house. She could hear laughter swelling in the backyard. Siobhan was there with their classmates and a few people she had seen walking around between classes. Her cheeks were nearly frozen. She happily joined them in front of the fire pit, where she perched on a log and accepted a cup of mulled wine. Their host said, “Someone’s excited,” with a knowing smirk.

Fiona just blushed and pulled her sleeve farther down her wrist.

Curious, the host settled beside Fiona on the log. “I’m Roman. Ramona to my mother.”

Fiona nodded through the steam of her mulled wine. “Have we met before?”

“No, but I believe you know Matt,” she said, pointing across the fire pit to a schlubby guy with a frosted beard and a lumberjack’s cap. “He’s my guy. My rock.”

Fiona looked Matt up and down. “He seems very sturdy.”

Roman sputtered beer, laughing. “Matt said you were a bitch. In a good way, I promise.”

This did not faze Fiona. She had heard it before. She turned to Siobhan, who walked over with a bag of marshmallows and the fixings for s’mores. “Just one,” she said, pointing to Roman. “I know how you get.”

Roman, who had already stuffed two marshmallows in her mouth, lifted her hands as if to say, “I’m innocent. Don’t shoot.”

Siobhan scowled. “Don’t give me that face. I’m on to you. Go find me some sticks.”

With an exaggerated pout, Roman trudged into the house in search of roasting forks.

Once alone, Siobhan whispered to Fiona, “Everyone’s talking about your timer.”

Fiona shrugged. “I’m more interested in whatever’s going on between you and Roman.”

Siobhan smirked but didn’t deny it. Her mischievous gaze drifted to where Roman and Matt stood framed in the small window of the kitchen. Matt had taken off his lumberjack cap and matching jacket and appeared to be snickering at something Roman had said. His flask rose to his lips, but Roman took it away from him before he could drink. He didn’t take offense at this or demand it back, only rolled up his sleeves and set about doing dishes while Roman returned with three roasting forks. Matt looked up briefly and waved to Fiona where she sat, wondering if that was what happiness was made of: confidence, ease. Having refilled her cup of wine and located a half-full box of graham crackers, Roman plunked herself down in the grass and began loading a roasting fork with marshmallows. “How many you want?” she said, asking Fiona.

“All of them.”

Roman laughed, holding ten over the fire. “I like your style.”

Fiona crouched next to the fire, holding her graham crackers at the ready.

Siobhan laughed. “It’s gonna be a minute, Fi.”

“I know. I wish I’d brought my camera.” Hovering above the flame, the pale underbellies of the marshmallows began slowly to caramelize, reminding Fiona of a burning filmstrip—how the celluloid bubbled, then burst, leaving browned pockets of color where images used to be. She had burned an entire movie once—shot it on a reel of overexposed Super 8 film, then lit it on fire one frame at a time just to see it for herself—just because, she told them. She remembered seeing the image of her own hand glowing hot in the flames, the fingers and palm turning orange, losing shape. Roman deposited the roasted marshmallow on her graham cracker just as it began to ooze. “Thank you,” she breathed. After one bite, her phone flashed. Marcus had texted. You up? It took some doing to write back without getting chocolate and marshmallow on her phone.

Her frustrated growl made Siobhan giggle. “Not in the mood tonight?”

“I’m just really into this s’more. It’s my boyfriend now.”

Siobhan tilted her head like a psychiatrist. “You seem to have a thing for dark chocolate.”

Fiona was in the middle of a bite and could only mumble the words “shut up.”

Roman leaned back, loading another set of marshmallows. “You seein’ someone, Fiona?”

She nodded, waving her hand as if it meant nothing. “Marcus. He might come.”

“He know about your timer?”

This question surprised Fiona, who had never considered the possibility that the single most essential thing about her—the length of her wait—could shrink inside her, become small and dark and secretive, like the inside of a camera, where images wait to be found. Her number seemed to change of its own volition, losing a minute here, an hour there, without asking her consent or giving her time to adjust to her new identity. When in the light of the fire her timer began to wail, spinning and stopping and then spinning again, her brain, fuzzed over from wine, struggled to understand just what was happening from one moment to the next and couldn’t process the numbers: 00 18 05 23 14 06. Or: 42 05 06 14 38 02. Or even: 00 26 06 09 14 23. It lingered on this last time long enough that people began to do the math.

“Twenty-six weeks. That would be . . . August.”

“Summer? Orientation, maybe.”

“You think it could be a prospective student?”

When her timer began to vacillate between August and March, it became clear: This was a prospective student (a graduate student, she hoped) who’d been admitted to several programs and was deciding between them, wondering which ones they would visit. Fiona’s timer suggested they’d decided on her school, but then all of a sudden rolled itself back to the beginning, to: 40 23 04 13 47 06. Her friends leaned back. One of them said, “Oh,” unwilling to voice what they were all thinking: that Fiona’s soul mate had chosen not to come, and there was nothing Fiona could do about it. When she looked up, she saw Marcus’s face materialize in the shadows, his broad mouth and distinguished stubble lit from below by his phone; the mere sight of him there made her want to cry.

Marcus comforted her as best he could. He walked her home after the party and let her cry herself out, then he kissed her, his warm satin kisses preceding his fingers as he told her to relax. He took his time, thinking this would soothe her, but when it was over and he was in the shower she went rummaging through a box of old clothes for a pair of leather cuffs that her father had made for her before he died. “Timers can be so cruel,” her father had said, fastening the cuffs around her wrists to hide the numbers glowing under her skin; he had sobered up by then. Thirteen years of hard work on her mother’s part had turned him into the man her timer had anticipated and demanded. United, they brought out the best possible versions of each other; that was what made them soul mates. Patient and considerate, humbled by his alcoholism and his past, Fiona’s father tried making amends with small acts of kindness like the cuffs; then one day, at an ATM not far from their house, he was killed in broad daylight by a high school senior attempting his first robbery. “I needed the money,” the teenager said in custody. “I’m supposed to meet my soul mate in a month and I need to support her.”

• • • •

Someone had carved their numbers into the wall of the library: 33 19 06 15 47 03. No one knew if the numbers belonged to a real human being or if they’d been auto-generated by the artist under the cover of night, but everyone understood the meaning of the title: I REFUSE. When people began adding their own numbers to this list, critics noted with some disdain that all of them belonged to long-gamers and that the piece smacked of a kind of juvenile self-pity in which only a disgruntled and unloved artist could indulge. But then short-timers began adding their numbers, as did professors and enders who had long since reached their completion date. Fiona was surprised both that the list had filled the library’s western wall and that the administration allowed it to continue even after campus religious groups referred to the piece as an abomination. In their opinion, timers were a gift from God, and rejecting that gift was a form of blasphemy.

Marcus asked if she was going to add her number to the wall. She hesitated. “Are you?”

“I just think it’s silly,” Marcus said, watching people scratch their numbers into the wall with keys and scissors. “You can’t escape fate. Even if you do reject your timer, it’s going to count down anyway. You’re going to meet your soul mate. So why fight it?”

Fiona dipped her head. “Don’t you find it exhausting? Living up to these expectations.”

He shrugged, setting his coffee on the table. “I’m a patient man.”

His remarkable self-assurance made Fiona uneasy, and she regretted having joined him in the library café. Exhausted by a nasty sinus infection she’d been fighting since mid-March, Fiona lifted her gaze, head wobbling as she glanced around the room. It seemed everywhere she looked, harried students were working at a feverish pace, desperate to return to their nice warm beds. Her brain felt like a watercolor, its pale, amorphous lobes ridding the world of its edges, and her thick, phlegmy cough rattled in her chest like the cogs of a broken-down machine.

“Fiona,” Marcus said, reaching out to touch her hand. “You need to get some rest.”

Fiona withdrew, pulling her sleeves down to hide her cuffs. “I just need to finish this.”

Marcus sat back, disappointed. “You shouldn’t be wearing those things.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“Suit yourself.”

Fiona blinked up at him, wondering when he stood. “Are you leaving?”

“I’m just getting another coffee. Do you want one?”

Fiona felt her mind nod irrespective of her head. As Marcus walked off, the asymmetrical patterns of his turtleneck unhinged, like the colorful pieces of a tangram she couldn’t fit back into its box. He used to make sense to her, but ever since the night in front of the fire, he felt different. She had begun distancing herself from him, making room for her soul mate, in case she arrived early. Of late, she had taken to imagining that her soul mate had already arrived, that she could sense this woman all around: in her house, in her bed, lingering beside her as she got dressed and went outside to greet the world with a secret happiness, a kind of intricate joy that kept her from feeling alone. Once or twice, she told Marcus, she’d even caught herself thinking in terms of “the two of us,” her and her soul mate, as if she were making decisions for the both of them.

When he returned, she was doodling in her notebook. “What’s that?”

“A picture,” she said, rotating the book so he could see: a woman’s head, its rounded chin and high, elegant forehead framed by a ring of loose curls. Fiona imagined the curls were blond, but otherwise had no real insight into the woman’s precise features. “I wish I could see her face.” Where the nose and mouth would be, she had drawn a blank.

“Fiona. This is unhealthy. You have to keep living your life.”

“What if she decided not to come because she doesn’t want to see me?”

Marcus wiped his hand over his temple. “We’ve been over this. You can’t know what her intentions are; you’re just guessing that she’s a prospective student. There’s no proof.”

Fiona shook her head. She did know. That night by the fire, one word had passed through her mind: “money,” its sad truth ringing like wires that had suddenly been drawn taut in the back of her brain. That was the reason her soul mate originally decided not to come. Fiona’s private liberal arts college was prohibitively expensive for most people, and if not for her father’s life insurance payout, Fiona wouldn’t have been able to attend, even with a scholarship and stipend. Sometimes she wondered if her soul mate’s timer had sped up, too, and if she’d known when she first decided not to come what that would mean. But Fiona couldn’t really believe that, and she placated her gnawing fears with thoughts of the future: growing basil, mending dresses, walking hand in hand down streets painted with red leaves, their pale pink underbellies thin as paper and just as lined.

Without realizing it, Fiona had begun to cry.

Marcus shut his book. “She’s not going to like you like this.”

“I know.” She said this quietly, mournfully, turning so she would not have to see his face. Her gaze drifted toward a tiny swaddled freshman girl who floated in and out of the crowd gathering at the art installation. Had she seen this girl before? Fiona couldn’t remember anymore. Faces had started blurring together, appearing once, sharply, then receding into a haze Fiona could no longer decipher or distinguish. Her only thoughts upon seeing someone new were “that’s not her” and “don’t worry.” It had been a long time since she last hung out with friends or with anyone besides Marcus. Siobhan had taken her to coffee two weeks before, and Roman had, with Matt’s blessing, invited her to dinner. But Fiona had declined. She knew it would only make them uncomfortable to see her like this. She did not want their pity.

When she turned back around, Marcus had already left.

That night, awakened by her coughing, Fiona pulled on her boots and mittens and trudged through the deserted campus, photographing the snow, which rose and fell like sand dunes on the Arts Quad. Halfway to the library, Fiona stumbled across a peculiar set of tracks in the blanket of fresh snow: big, plodding boot prints (almost certainly male) accompanied by a deep gouge made with a heavy object of some kind—perhaps a machine. Hidden behind a tree, Fiona screwed on a telephoto lens and pointed it at the library’s western wall, where a man stood on a tall ladder. His hands and face were obscured from this angle, but judging by height alone Fiona guessed this was the unknown artist behind I REFUSE. Getting closer, she realized he had deepened the numbers scratched into the stone earlier and was adding new ones above them:

21 37 06 09 45 02

05 09 01 42 53 28

56 37 04 03 29 08

Half an hour later, the artist descended the ladder and began slowly dragging it back to his hiding place inside the fine arts building. His tracks would be filled by morning, Fiona knew, so nobody would be able to follow them or uncover his identity. She would keep his secret. She didn’t tell anyone that she added her numbers to the wall. Her video camera, stationed some thirty feet to the right, recorded her untying her leather cuffs, considering her timer, and then covering it again before scratching her original numbers into the wall: 40 19 03 07 49 18. Ever since the fire, she had been counting down her old timer in her head, comparing what it would’ve read had it never changed to what it read now. This was her secret: that the morning after she put on the cuffs, her timer began whirring indecisively, resetting itself every night for a month before finally settling on a time: 00 22 05 03 16 35.

Her soul mate would be arriving in the fall.

• • • •

Fiona started preparing in August, when she moved into the new one-bedroom apartment she’d originally intended to live in with Marcus during the long wait. He’d taken his name off their lease at her request and later helped her move her heavy furniture into the apartment, lifting, hauling, and reassembling as if he actually intended to be her friend. In truth, his interest in her had long since waned and become primarily physical, and now whenever he came over, there was a faint air of bemusement about him, as if he couldn’t understand why she insisted on playing house alone. He studied her table lamps, her stoneware plates, the new down comforter she made him turn down before getting into bed, wondering if this was what she liked or what she believed she should like for her soul mate. It was all so strange to him. “I feel like I’m eating another man’s food,” he told her once over dinner, not because it upset him but because he’d never been in such a position before and found it rather intriguing. From a sociological perspective, he assured her.

Fiona’s mother worried she was getting a little ahead of herself.

“Timers aren’t supposed to do that, Fi. What did your doctor say?”

“What they all say: ‘Blah blah blah, there’s still a lot we don’t know about timers, blah.’”

“Did he run any tests?”

“Waiting for the results. But I doubt they’ll find anything if they don’t know what they’re supposed to be looking for.” Her doctor had been wholly unwilling to think there was anything at work other than Fiona’s romanticized ideals, but Fiona had her own theory about what was going on. Her research revealed rare cases in which timers had gone dark, their numbers appearing to be erased, only to turn back on, weeks or months later, for reasons that weren’t entirely clear. The timers, it seemed, weren’t perfect, didn’t account for accidents and random acts of violence. They couldn’t predict if a person would be satisfied with their soul mate or if that would have to wait for the next life—or the next. Perhaps dissatisfaction had led her soul mate to make a life-altering decision that changed the course of their future; then again, maybe it was fear.

Weeks passed, and Fiona couldn’t get the thought out of her head. “What if she’s running from something?”

Siobhan pushed her glasses back. “Who?”

Fiona blinked. “Oh, I didn’t realize I said that out loud.”

“Jesus Christ, Fiona.”

Fiona shrugged defensively. “I’m allowed to worry, given the circumstances.”

Siobhan sighed, running a hand over her face. “Can we please just finish this project?”

“Right. Of course.” A second later, Fiona asked, “You going to the party tonight?”

Siobhan dropped her head into her book, pounding it in frustration.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

While getting dressed that night, Fiona decided to unlace her leather cuffs. Her timer read: 00 03 01 16 38 02—three weeks, one day, sixteen hours, thirty-eight minutes, and two seconds to completion. It amazed her how quickly the timer was counting down now that the first two digits had reached zero. Fiona had waited twenty-four years for this sight; now whenever she saw it, she flushed with pride, as if it were a reward for her hard work and determination. Siobhan would die if she knew.

Fiona arrived late to the party. “Daydreaming again?” Siobhan asked.

Fiona laughed but didn’t deny it. “What kind of cake did you get?”

“Double-double chocolate.”

Fiona joined Siobhan at the tail end of the bar, where she was busily counting out candles for Roman and Matt, whose birthdays were just forty-five hours apart. Both of them were turning twenty-eight. “Are all these people here for the party?” Fiona craned her neck over the crowd.

Siobhan glanced over her shoulder. “I think so. You should go say hi to Roman.”

Fiona pushed off the bar, through the gaps between bodies. Peanut shells cracked underneath her boots. Classmates milled about, drinking well liquors and two-dollar cans of PBR. One of the local pool hustlers missed a shot Fiona had seen him make fifty times. Way in the back of the bar, Fiona found her friends: the birthday boy and girl were nestled in a booth, arms thrown around each other as they ate fries and mean mugged for the camera.

“Fiona!” Roman said, french fries still dangling from her lips.

Fiona lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “You changed your hair.”

A blue shock of hair rose like a ponytail from the center of her otherwise shaved head.

“You like it? Matt did it himself.”

Matt nodded drunkenly. Five empty beer cans sat in front of him.

After Fiona pulled up a chair, Roman leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “Fiona. I need to talk to you about Siobhan. I can’t seem to get through to her. Can you hook me up?”

Fiona glanced at Matt, then back at Roman. “I thought you two . . .”

“What—Matt? No. He’s like my little brother. I’ve known him since I was two.”

Fiona understood now. Matt and Roman were platonic soul mates, life partners who found romantic fulfillment in others. This sort of arrangement was not uncommon, particularly among those of different sexual orientations or religious faiths, but Fiona herself had never met a couple like this before; she found it refreshing. “I can talk to Siobhan, but we all know she’s into you.”

Roman nodded glumly. “Maybe. But that’s not the same thing as wanting to be with me.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Fiona shrugged. “Just wait and see what happens.”

Matt grinned, lifting his beer in toast. “To putting yourself out there!” Only then did Matt realize Fiona didn’t have a drink. “Can I get you something? An old-fashioned?”

His face when she said no made her laugh and suggest a game of pool to cheer him up.

He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Prepare to lose.”

Fiona snickered, allowing the giddiness of the night to seep into her. She was terrible, just incapable of playing pool with grace or skill, but she did like listening to the balls clack around on the felt, their hard, shiny resin gleaming in the light of the low-hanging lamps. In between turns, she watched Matt’s stripes roll and spin as he attempted shots he wasn’t capable of yet, shots that sent billiard balls flying into the crowd, where Matt’s party guests dodged them with increasing skill. Fiona followed these runaway balls under stools and jukeboxes, wondering when she did if anyone would see the numbers on her timer or if they were more concerned with the eight ball upending itself at their feet. During one of these retrieval missions, someone from a class she’d taken asked if he knew her. When she shook her head, she noticed that her timer had grown soft and that the numbers in each column had gotten stuck, trapped somehow between two and three, six and seven, one and zero. Puzzled, she looked up at the stranger, who shook his head, knowing he wasn’t the one. Fiona glanced around, seeking new faces, ones she thought she could trust, and then, when she turned, her timer blared its end: 00 00 00 00 00 00.

Here she was: gray-eyed, smartly dressed, with painted nails that glinted like the surface of the ocean at night. Fiona’s soul mate stared at her in a state of wonder and disbelief. Her lips parted, and Fiona felt a sudden wash of affection. She felt her life aligning inside her, like the gears of a puzzle box turning, clicking into place in preparation for the moment it would be solved. With equal parts hope and sadness, Fiona’s soul mate pulled back her sleeve, revealing her wrist. Her timer hadn’t stopped.

“Oh,” Fiona said, grabbing her wrist like a prisoner released from handcuffs. Her face felt totally numb, and she was shivering inside her winter coat. Her soul mate touched her arm gently, but she couldn’t feel it through the puffy sleeve. For some reason, Fiona said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. My timer must be wrong,” the woman said, even as a man grabbed her elbow with a familiarity that said she was his for now. Marianne, he called her, tugging on her arm with just enough force to make her take a step toward him. “Just give me a minute,” she said.

Feeling light-headed, Fiona staggered back, as if about to faint. “I have to go.”

“No,” Marianne started to say, but, distraught, Fiona turned around and headed straight to the door, remembering only at the last second to drop her billiard ball into the palm of a bemused but not unreceptive stranger who wished her a good night. Outside, the cold midnight air soothed her, and after several deep breaths she was able to remember which way to walk to get home. For a moment she considered dipping into the bar’s alley, resting her head against its cool stone walls as she thought of the neon signs inside, of the gratifying curves of the ancient jukebox, and of the thin hearts carved into the wooden tables and booths. But there were people sitting on the steps of the bar, and she didn’t want any of them to see her like this. She’d come too early, Fiona realized. She’d made a mistake. Marianne’s timer didn’t know her yet.

• • • •

Her timer was still visible. Its numbers had turned black and had stopped glowing, but the individual digits had not faded into her skin, lingering there months after completion. Their presence mocked her, making her think of branded cattle or whirlwind lovers, their bodies adorned with the initials of their beloved: MQ, Marianne Quennell, daughter of Mia Noémie and Edouard Jérôme Quennell, two linguistics professors at the University of Victoria in British Columbia, where Marianne lived until she decided to attend graduate school in the United States. Perhaps this explained the indecisiveness of her timer. It must’ve been a difficult decision, leaving home, particularly when home was so very beautiful. Fiona had seen photographs online: of the ferries Marianne rode across Puget Sound, of the books she read and the misty beaches where she lounged, watching pods of orcas drift past. What had brought her to this cold, snowy campus, where the prettiest thing was the sound of a waterfall roaring beneath your feet?

Apparently, Marianne had a long-term boyfriend. Charles Tremblay. The man who held her arm at the bar that night. “I guess she tried to break up with him before she moved here,” Siobhan said, having heard the story from a friend of a friend. “But he wouldn’t let her go. He called and texted until finally he wore her down and she agreed to take him back. I give it another month, tops.”

Fiona blinked a few times, just trying to absorb the information, but she couldn’t seem to fit it inside her head. Siobhan had dropped in on her at a bad time, while she was looking at a series of homemade videos shot by people who had rejected their timers: people who attempted to cut out, burn off, or otherwise remove the numbers from under their skin. Fiona was barely able to gather herself and now sat on the far end of the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest.

“She wants to see you.”

Fiona shook her head. The mere thought of it was unbearable.

“You can’t stay cooped up in here. It isn’t healthy. You have to go out. Shoot a movie.”

“I’m not sure I want to be a director anymore,” Fiona said, pulling at a loose thread.

“That’s nonsense and you know it.”

“I just feel like I’ve spent my whole life making myself into this thing. And for what?”

Siobhan considered her for a moment. “You couldn’t have known this would happen, Fi.”

Thinking back on it, though, part of her had known. On her fifth birthday, her mother had recorded her having a conversation with her great aunt. Fiona was caught saying of her soul mate, “She’s very pretty. She has curly blonde hair and speaks with a French accent.” When asked how she knew all this, young Fiona grinned knowingly and said, “She told me.” It seemed so innocent at the time, just another childish fantasy played out in the living room while her mother spoke on the phone. Now, years later, thinking back on that conversation gave Fiona a sinking feeling deep in her stomach. She feared she’d been lying to herself, pretending she was prepared for the long wait, when in fact she was just drowning. In her lowest moments, Fiona texted Marcus and asked him to come over—but he was rougher than she remembered, his thrusts sharp and selfish and his hands bruising, as if using her to work through some dark and buried anger. It frightened her to think what she’d become to him. How ridiculous she looked now.

It had been three months. Fiona rarely left the apartment except for class.

Occasionally, she rallied, braving the cold for a trip to the library or a night at the cinema. Fiona felt safe there, in the silence of the theater, where the heated stairs and the scent of buttered popcorn transported her to another world. This was her sole comfort in the dark, early days of the year. More often than not, the sun set shortly before Fiona crawled out of bed, making it feel like no time had passed at all. Life was just one long night stretching into eternity. December became January. Monday became Tuesday. Fiona’s mother grew worried. “What happened to that doctor you were talking to? What was his name?”

“He was a researcher, Mom. He wasn’t interested in me. Just my timer.”

“Well, did he at least figure out what was wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. She just isn’t the one. Or I’m not her one.”

In the silence, Fiona imagined the angry line of her mother’s frown.

“Anyway, I’m fine. I’m going to a party tonight. An Elegant Winter Party.”

“Please tell me it’s not another one of those ridiculous mixers they hold in a barn.”

“For your information, it’s a fund-raiser for the cinema, and I’m excited about going.”

That year’s theme was the Roaring Twenties. Attendees were encouraged to wear period costumes and buy drinks at the bar. On the walk over, Fiona saw more than a few tipsy donors in flapper dresses and cloche hats traipsing through the snow. Inside, ushers in tuxedo-mimicking T-shirts checked coats and directed guests toward the hors d’oeuvres table. Fiona lingered for some time over the miniature quiches, pleased by the compliments she received on her cocktail dress: a satiny black sheath with gauzy sleeves and a dramatic white sash that flowed down from her bust to her stockinged feet. In it, she felt like someone other than herself—the product of a bygone era whose passing had left her radiant and sophisticated but not at all prepared to see Marianne.

“Hello. It’s Fiona, yes?”

Fiona shivered with fear and hope. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Yes, well, I thought you might come tonight, and I love the cinema.” Marianne shrugged prettily, with a motion that caused the silver tassels of her dress to shimmer around her throat. As she smiled, the halide lamps in the ceiling warmed up, glowing a soft pink. Marianne pointed up. “We had these in Vancouver, too, but ours were yellow.” Her eyes fell to Fiona’s. “It’s softer, no?”

Fiona did her best not to blush. “I think they only turn them on for special occasions.”

Marianne hummed quietly, pleased to have Fiona’s attention. “Have you seen this film?”

Fiona shook her head. Marianne’s finger was pointing at the screen, conjuring the pictures Fiona knew from this fund-raiser’s invitations: a woman smiling in her lover’s arms, a man gazing up at the newly risen moon, two lovers clinging to each other on a riverbank—the man reclining, the woman resting her hand over his heart. Fiona remembered working at a theater much like this one in high school and standing onstage, allowing the bright light of the 35mm projector to shine over her head and superimpose images of cows, aliens, and sunrises on her face. In this state, she watched a coworker at the back of the theater signal with his hands: adjust the curtains, raise the volume, pull the focus, perfect. She told Marianne that every time she walked on that stage it was like stepping through a portal into a world of light and magic. Before love, before time, there was only this: endless, soundless ecstasy.

Marianne’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe one day I will get to see this preshow, as you call it.”

Fiona smiled sadly. “You can’t. Everyone’s switching to digital now.”

“Pity.” Marianne glanced around, then touched Fiona’s arm lightly. “Shall we sit?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Fiona said, withdrawing. “You don’t have to be nice to me.”

“I want to.” Marianne pressed a hand to Fiona’s cheek, giving her a kind, confident smile. When Fiona protested that Marianne wasn’t meant for her (that she had someone else, a soul mate waiting for her on the other end of her timer), Marianne hushed her with a soft clicking noise and assured her there could be any number of reasons their timers hadn’t synced up. “Please, let’s just sit down.” She’d picked out two seats for them near the back of the theater, on the aisle to the left of the stage, where the pianist would walk when the lights began to dim. Fiona noticed as she settled in that the small track lights bordering the aisle were orange and that they shone faintly on Marianne’s sparkly hemline. While she sat, her eyes fixed on Marianne’s timer, the famed pianist accompanying the film delivered a lecture on its history. Evidently, its original negative had been destroyed in a big fire in Little Ferry, New Jersey, when a vault of nitrate films suddenly went up in flames. While she listened, Fiona couldn’t help thinking she should’ve known this already, should’ve known that desire was a spectacle and that she would spend all her time with Marianne contorting herself into the woman she thought her soul mate wanted. She accepted this future like she accepted the premise of a film with no color and no audio. In the gaps between chords, Fiona heard nothing, only the soft, sure sound of Marianne breathing in the dark.

©2018 by Ruth Joffre.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruth Joffre is the author of the story collection Night Beast. Kelly Link selected the title story of her collection as the winner of The Masters Review’s 2016 Fall Fiction Contest. Her writing has also appeared in Kenyon Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Mid-American Review, Prairie Schooner, Nashville Review, Copper Nickel, and elsewhere. She lives in Seattle, where she is currently at work on a novel.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

Lazy Dog Out

Suzanne Palmer | 22580 words

Khifi traded the warm embrace of her wife’s arms for the pricking of cold air on her bare skin and a regret she knew she would not dispel until she was back here again on the far side of a ten-hour shift. She danced on her toes across the metal floor and out of their small sleeping alcove, sliding the screen doors closed behind her. Lema had more than once suggested she keep her boots at the bedside so she could slip straight into them, but if she did, she couldn’t sneak out without waking her.

She checked the apartment monitors to make sure oxygen was optimum, all systems running green. Not that they ever weren’t, but she required that brief reassurance. Pulling clothes out of the post-wash basket, she shrugged into a sports bra, bright red tank top, and black pants before wrapping her vambrace over her left forearm. Her boots were by the door, and she stepped into their fuzzy warmth with a sigh of relief as they adjusted around her feet. As the kitchenapp kicked on to start the coffee, she skimmed the news, disinterested. There were no big Tanduou stories, and anything else local worth knowing—and that she didn’t already know—wouldn’t be on the feeds anyway.

Rummaging through the foodkeeper, she pulled out an oblong shape and tucked it carefully in her backpack that hung near the door. “Khif?” Lema called from the other room. She sounded like she wasn’t sure if she was awake or asleep. “Are you stealing the whole loaf of protein bread again?”

“Only half of one, Lem,” she said, “and it’s the stale one from two days ago.”

“It’s only stale because you don’t eat enough.”

“It’s only half a loaf because I ate plenty,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

There was a long silence, and Khifi had just concluded that Lema had done exactly that when she heard, sleepily, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said. “Gotta go.”

She slipped on her jacket and backpack, took her coffee out of the maker, and left the apartment feeling warm enough after all.

At the fastlane station, she slid her license through the reader and waited the four point three seconds for it to verify that she was rated for the lane and deposit an empty sled in the tube. Climbing in, she made sure the lid on her coffee was fully sealed before she put the thermal mug in her backpack, tied the pack down at the base of the sled, and strapped herself in. She put her hands on the dual joystick controls on either side and ran though a mental self-check to make sure she was awake and alert enough. Once she was sure she was good, she launched herself up into the tube at top acceleration.

Navigating the branching maze of the Tanduou tube system was almost an art. More than one overtired, over-intoxicated, or over-self-estimated tube-noob had turned themselves into a pulpy obstruction in the system before skill-ranked licensing was implemented. It had reduced, if not eliminated, fatality-related delays.

Eight turns, the surface rotary loop, and two timed junctions later, she kicked her sled out the exit for the Paxillo Docks. As she braked the last quarter kilometer into the transit station, she could see the city-lit underbellies of ships shifting overhead like a perpetual storm cloud of rusty junk. The bright yellow-brown disk of the nearby planet lurked behind them, a faded sun never quite able to break through.

Her eyes looked for trouble, found none.

Shouldering her pack, she left the transit station and merged into the cramped hallways of the underbelly of the Docks. As she turned a corner toward the central hub, faint footsteps fell in behind her, distinct from the usual heavy-booted crowd. For a half-second she thought about the three knives she had within easy reach, then instead abruptly stopped walking mid-stride. Her follower slammed right into her. She spun around in time to catch the chagrin on his face. He was eight or nine standard years old, although he was small enough to be younger and had the eyes of someone older. “Morning, Mole,” she said. “Where’s your partner in crime today?”

He shrugged. Traffic in the hallway moved seamlessly around them, uncaring. “Birdie had business.”

“You were looking for me?”

“Figured I might run into you,” he said, and almost smiled.

She glanced around to make sure there was no one in the halls who could make trouble, then slid her pack off and set it on the floor. She took out the half-loaf and handed it to him. “You okay?” she asked. “No one hassling you?”

“No one new,” he answered. When she waited, he added, “I’m okay.”

“Everyone else?”

He looked down toward his threadbare shoes, held together with cargo sealant and grime. “Peezy and Gums went off to Notomyo Dock. Gums come back in bad shape, pissing blood, not talking. We not found Peezy yet. Thinking she dead or grabbed.”

Well, shit, she thought. “Why’d they go there?”

“Heard about easy stuff to get.”

“What’re the rules, Mole?”

“No stealing except direct to survive, no stealing more than you need, no stealing from anyone who can’t afford to lose it,” he said. “Assume everything’s a trap.”

“And?”

“And don’t get caught.”

“How do you know this isn’t a trap?” she asked.

“Know it is. Food’s the bait, and the trap is you make me learn reading and numbers and stuff.” He broke the loaf carefully into three roughly equal pieces. Putting two deep down in the pocket of his ragged coat, he began chewing on the last. She knew he’d save one piece for Birdie and wondered who the other was for.

“If you learn to run manifests and do other textwork, you could get a job and get out of the crawl. You’ve only got a few more years before you’re too old to stay down there,” she said. “You do that lesson I gave you?”

“Yeah. Tuck’s taking a turn now,” he said. “Tuck’s new. Little. Not a runaway, a drop. Cries all the time. Birdie says we looking after him now.”

Khifi watched as he licked a fingertip and meticulously picked up and ate the crumbs he’d dropped on the front of his coat. She remembered being that hungry, once. “Bugs came in last shift,” he said, eventually. Bugs were crawler slang for aliens.

“Yeah? Which kind?”

“Hain’t seen, don’t know. Down in Velatos.”

Velatos, she thought. Shit, I forgot.

Mole stiffened at her suddenly tense body language. “It’s okay, Mole,” she said, “I promised Lema I’d run an errand for her in Velatos and now it’s too late. Going to have to go after my shift.”

“If you do, let me know about the bugs,” Mole said. He patted his pocket to make sure he still had the food secured there, then peered through the crowds back down the hall. By the time she’d got her pack back on, there was no sign of him in the swirling tide of merchants and haulers, scavengers and lost.

She headed toward the central hub into the heart of Paxillo.

Tanduou’s Docks had spread out over the surface of the tide-locked moon, thickening and growing together until they were one interconnected network of docks and storage facilities, black markets and slums, arms reaching out from individual locii to embrace and entangle each other. The hubs remained distinct, massive metal and stone towers rising toward the constant swarm of ships above, while here and there, at the outskirt borders between them, small patches of the native rocky surface could still be seen, littered with twisted scrap and, sometimes, the remains of the unlucky or unwise on eternal, cautionary display.

The lowest level of Paxillo’s hub was a wide concourse, full of shops selling uncertain foods and goods banned on dozens of worlds. Lines of people queued to enter, queued to leave. Always among them were the crawlers looking for dropped food or unattended luggage, a bold few looking to liberate things more actively. Hunting on the floor was desperation or reckless overconfidence; even the best of the best would, eventually, get caught. She knew that all too personally.

An assault of activity, noise, and smells hit her face-on as she merged into the concourse. Normally she found the chaos a comforting unpleasantness. This time, though, one particular smell had infiltrated, tainting the usual, complex mix. That specific cheap Titan cologne had only one devotee she knew of, at least at the level of fanatical self-slathering needed to stand out in this space.

“Fox,” Sniv said, using her pilot name as he appeared out of the crowd and fell in beside her, enveloping her in his toxic miasma. “Another long shift? You must be very tired.”

“I sleep well,” she said, and kept walking.

“I trust you are sufficiently compensated—”

“I am, Sniv, and it’s none of your business.”

“Ah, but I am a man of all businesses!” he declared. “I know about your past, and I have an offer for you. A simple guide job, well-paying—”

“If it’s a legit job, bring it to Quizzie, the Dock manager. If not, I’m certain I am not interested,” Khifi said.

“If you reconsider, perhaps we can meet and break bread over it,” he said. “I hear you like to share your food with Tanduou’s unfortunates, and surely I am begging for your time. Think about it.”

Before she could form an answer, he swept back into the crowd, leaving her choking down a blistering reply.

It was neither common knowledge nor a secret that Khifi was once a crawler herself. It was just dumb luck that she was caught by a pilot rather than security, and that he’d had a need to save the world one lost piece at a time. She would spend her lifetime trying to pay that good fortune back. Whatever Sniv wanted of her, it could only be a step backward.

Sniv had left her just a few steps away from the uniformed Dock Security officer half-asleep at his post. She passed through the gate to the private elevators, put her hand on the palm scanner, then stepped into the lift when it opened. The car smoothly rose up the tower to Paxillo Dock Control.

Control was a circular room with a view of the entirety of Paxillo Dock. In the dim light, console displays bathed everyone and everything in a reddish glow. In the center was an elevated platform where the ending shift’s Ops manager, Goffs, was slouched in his chair with a deep frown on his face. Inchbug, on air comms, gave Khifi a half-wave as she entered. Khifi smiled and waved back before looking around for her own team.

Sparkle was sprawled in a chair at the end of the room, arms crossed over her chest and feet up on an idle console, eyes closed. Jonjon was at the break station trying to coax the coffee dispenser to break whatever law of physics limited the speed at which even spacer fakebrew could be squirted out first thing in the morning. Redrum sat in a chair, his bony hands already wrapped around a mug, a small smile playing on his face as he listened to Jonjon’s low, ritual wheedling.

Khifi walked over to stand beside the machine. “Let me,” she said after a few moments and thumped the side of the machine with her fist. Immediately it began to chug out its small measure of low-rent heaven.

“I don’t know how the fuck you always do that, Fox,” Jonjon said.

“Magic,” she answered. And timing, she didn’t add; the machine had a small but distinct hiccup in its internal rumblings just prior to dispensing. “Just remember to save me some. Quizzie’s not here?” Quizzie was their shift’s Ops manager, but her larger duties as dock manager sometimes took her elsewhere.

“Dockmaster caught a ride with her down to the Gee. Another trade meet, arguing about the gravity bill,” Redrum said. “Stickles is the man in the chair today. He’s on his way.”

Jonjon relinquished his position in front of the coffee dispenser to her. She took her mug off the shelf above it and poured herself a full cup. Despite Tanduou being independent, the central government of Guratahan Sfazil believed that, simply because they provided a planet for Tanduou to orbit around, they deserved a cut from the dock trade profit. It was a never-ending argument. Khifi’s impression was that the Gee’s strategy was to wear them down through constant, petty annoyance.

Speaking of annoyances. She drained her coffee with barely a grimace, stuck the mug back in the sani-rack, and went to Inchbug’s station to look out the window. “The Rimbolan freighter is still out there?” she exclaimed. “Is this four days now?”

“Yeah,” Inchbug said. “Waiting on parts, they say. Damned heap of junk is taking up three dock slots. We’ve swamped Velatos with our extra traffic, and we’ve even had to push ships as far off as Oreasta and Luida docks.”

“Surprised Goffs hasn’t called in a salvage team.”

“Yeah, well. I think the only reason he hasn’t is that Mr. Balcko is so spun up about it he’s shitting rocks, and Goffs is enjoying that.”

“Mr. Balcko? Why does he care? If the traffic isn’t going outside our cluster—”

Inchbug shrugged. “No idea. Goffs suddenly seems to be all about getting in Balcko’s face, and with the Dockmaster off-moon . . . Well. If I were you I’d let it be Stickles’s problem and stay out of it. And I’m going to hope your lot or the next has this all settled before my shift comes round again.”

Balcko was the manager of the seven docks, including Paxillo, that made up Velatos cluster. That put him high enough up the Tanduou food chain to make life difficult for anyone down at their level, answering only to the Dockmaster himself. “Thanks for the warning,” she said. “You out?”

“Soon as Tumbler and Beanmaker get their feet down,” Inchbug said. “Yebbles is in, and Ryeneck’s waiting on Pits in cargo to give the clear.”

Khifi glanced across the room. Ryeneck was cleaning gunk out from under his nails with the end of a handpad stylus as he talked, mouth moving nonstop, the murmur low enough from here to sound like a cargo-drone losing its engine at altitude.

“There a problem?” Khifi asked.

“No, Pits isn’t even on the line yet. Rye’s lost his head for a controller over in the Odinella cluster, and he’s a-wooing.”

“Over the official lines?!”

“Naw. He hacked into an illegal relay down in the markets and used it to patch an encrypted channel through the public comm system. Can pretty much talk the ear off anyone and everyone on Tanduou all day, so long as no one too high up notices. We’ve got cred riding on how many shifts it takes him to crash and burn.”

“Based on that pilot in Acontias cluster he was in love with last week? My guess is not long.”

Inchbug snorted. “Too right. Hey, speaking of gossip, I hear you and Lem are implanting?”

Khifi sighed. “Fourth try,” she said.

Inchbug shook her head. “I can’t imagine bringing a kid into this world,” she said. “I—”

Stickles walked in, interrupting whatever Inch had been about to say. He looked as disheveled as always, like someone had just dumped him out of a sack on their doorstep. “Almost shift time, gang,” he said. “Give me five minutes to check in with Goffs. Fox, you’re air captain, do what you do best.”

Khifi looked around. She was still missing two of her pilots. Kaiju was always last second, but Knits . . .

“Tumbler is in, Beanmaker docking in five,” Inch announced, just as Kaiju, on cue, ran out of the half-open elevator and pitched himself into the chair beside Redrum, trying to catch his breath.

“Shift change,” Goffs announced.

“Ops commander, checking in,” Stickles announced.

“Ops commander, transferring command and checking out,” Goffs said. He pulled his ID card from the console, stood up, and said one last thing to Stickles before climbing down the ladder onto the floor.

Sparkle cracked an eye open, unfolded herself from her chair, and loomed over Ryeneck until he disconnected his line, threw down his headset, and yielded his chair. He kicked the post as she sat down, and she swiveled around and smirked at him until he left.

“Jonjon, you may relieve Inchbug,” Stickles said.

Jonjon brought his mug over as Inchbug slid off her headpiece and rubbed wearily at her eyes. “All yours,” she said, and let him take her seat.

“I’m still down a pilot,” Khifi said. “I don’t know where Knits is.”

“She called in sick,” Goffs said, as he climbed down from the ops platform. “Stickles was bringing a replacement.”

“Candles is on his way up by tube right now.”

Khifi thought she knew all the pilots in the cluster and most beyond, but the name was unfamiliar. “Candles?”

“New,” Stickles said. “Working out of Novodinia with me.”

“How new?” She narrowed her eyes.

“So shiny and new the wrapper hasn’t sloughed off yet,” Stickles said, “but only to Tanduou; kid’s got time under his belt driving cargo skips out around the Bounds dodging pirates. You won’t hate him, and it mostly won’t even feel like babysitting. Give him a chance. Please?”

Please? That was unusual. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

“He’s just not a local, okay?” Stickles said. “Burnout’s been giving him a hard time.”

“Burnout’s an assvalve. Whose tug is he taking?”

“The cluster spare. Beanmaker is hauling it over now, that’s why he’s running late. Once Candles makes it past review, we’ll assign him a permanent tug and home dock. Think about that as you work with him; if there’s a happier fit here in Paxillo, it’d save everyone some grief.”

The lift doors opened and someone very, very tall stepped out onto the floor. The newcomer was well over two meters in height, attenuated and gangly looking. He was also shirtless and hairless. What really stood out, though, were the thick swirls and whorls of silvery-gray that climbed up his torso, along his neck and bare scalp. Contrasted against the spacer-brown of his skin, the effect was startling. As he stepped forward, the patterns shimmered in the changing light.

Not local, indeed, Khifi thought.

Stickles looked up from his seat at the command console. “Candles, just in time.”

Candles raised one long, skinny arm, and gave an uncertain wave. “Uh, hi,” he said. It was so much the gesture of any awkward teenager anywhere that Khifi laughed. His eyes went straight to her, his face a mask of both defiance and anxiety. Yeah, she could imagine Burnout being rough on this kid.

Khifi thumped Jonjon on the shoulder so that he turned around in the chair. “Hi, Candles. I’m Fox,” she said. She pointed to the rest of her team. “This is Jonjon on Comms for the air,” she said, “and over there is Sparkle on ground. By the coffee machine is Redrum and Kaiju, pilots.”

“You air captain?” Candles asked.

“I am today,” she said.

“She is every day,” Jonjon said. “Best pilot in the cluster, but don’t tell her I said that.”

“Best, huh?” Candles asked. That spark of challenge brightened.

She shrugged. “Everyone does their best as a team, or no one does,” she said. “Stickles, you got work for us?”

“Soon as you slackers finish up your coffee social and get out there, yeah,” he said.

“Okay,” Khifi said. “Move, everyone. Candles, I’m going to come watch you go through your preflight checks.”

He made a face. Damn, he’s young, she thought. “Done a hundred checks afore,” he said, his Bounds accent thick. “Not needing your eyes on me.”

“Yeah, well, you get them anyway,” she said, pointing toward the tower lift emphatically. “No one goes out on my watch that I don’t know first-hand can handle themselves.”

“Trust her, kid,” Stickles called down from the command platform.

The lift arrived and Candles followed her reluctantly in. As the doors closed, she turned to him. “You have a suit, right?” she asked.

“Do,” he said. “Just the Colony not like it, being closed.”

“The Colony?”

He waved one hand loosely up and down his torso. Closer up she could see the silver markings were more of a dense fuzz, and that it rippled gently despite the lack of moving air in the car.

“It’s alive?” she asked.

“Yeh. Does it give you fear?”

“Not really, no,” she said, and wasn’t sure if he looked more relieved or disappointed. “You want to talk about it?”

“Gen-mod symbiote,” he said. “Converts rads to vitals.”

Vitamins, she interpreted. “You’re from deep out.”

“Yeh. Suvastia. Jobworld. Family contract got redunded and we was let go,” he said. “Sibs got refuge on Beenjai, I came here with eyes on better work.”

“Well, if you can fly, you should do fine,” she said. “It’s staying out of trouble that’s the real challenge. Stickles is a good lead; his advice is worthwhile.”

“Said same of you.”

Khifi laughed. “Okay, so most of his advice is worthwhile. How’d you end up as Candles?” Nicknames were a point of both pride and deep superstition in the Docks; few people went by anything else, especially pilots.

“Burnout wanted to nick me Vacuumfodder. I said I specked he’d find the final cold sooner, and he said, quoting, ‘Boo hoo, I’ll light you some candles.’ So Candles.”

“There are definitely worse nicks. There’s a cargo hauler on one of the skip runs who goes by Assface.”

He laughed. “Don’t mind Candles. Light in the darkness, know so? Growing on me. How come Fox?”

“The pilot I apprenticed with was obsessed with languages. Made sure it was my hobby, too. The Earth dialect a lot of our language grew up from had only twenty-six letters in it, and there was a sentence that used all of them, which was, in translation: ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.’ You’ll have to trust me it’s got all the letters in there. Anyhow, my trainer figured I was quick enough to get out of the way of almost any trouble, so Fox it was.”

The lift stopped and opened out onto the tug bay. Her own ship—ugly as shit, powerful enough to push the biggest freighter and most warships off their own paths— sat in its cradle, feedlines connected from ceiling and floor charging its systems. “And that,” she said, waving at it with no small pride, “is my Lazy Dog.”

Parked beside it was the smaller loaner tug Beanmaker had brought in. “There’s yours,” she said. “Walk through your checks like I’m not even here.”

“If you be not here, I be doing my checks naked,” Candles said.

Khifi stopped in her tracks. “You’re joking.”

He met her eyes, his somber face incrementally shifting into a grin.

She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying not to laugh and failing. “Okay, you got me,” she said.

Candles walked over to his ship and she followed. He ignored her, moving over and around his ship with efficiency and thoroughness before he disconnected the spare’s feeder hoses and let them retract. Disappearing inside, he powered it up, then reemerged to walk around the ship’s perimeter, checking the exterior lights. It was only as he stood by one of the two engine pods that he turned to her. “Pitch be low,” he said.

He knows what his engines are supposed to sound like, she thought, approving. And he was right: the pitch was low. Candles stared at his ship for a long minute before he took two steps to his left, listened again, and then began unscrewing the safety grill over one of the half-dozen air intakes for his port engine. “Where I about finding tools?” he asked.

“What do you need?”

“A light, and someit long and skinny.”

“You got it,” Khifi said. She went to the back of the bay, swiped her ID, and pulled open drawers until she’d found a handlight and a long-handled hex driver. She brought them back over to Candles. “These do?”

“Perf, thanks,” he said. He took the handlight, slipped it over his palm, and shone it down into the intake. Nodding his head, he took the hex driver and with his other hand poked around inside the air intake until he managed to pull out a long, blackish gray lump.

“Sock?” Khifi asked.

“Sock,” he confirmed. He shone the light in again, then turned it off and stood with his eyes closed, listening. “Sounds right, now.”

“You want me to have a word with Stickles?”

“No,” he said, stuffing the sock into a pants pocket. “Best deal back myself.”

“All yours then,” she said. “Nothing dangerous, understood?”

“Stood. But shit-yourself scary is in play, right?”

Khifi chuckled. “As I said, as long as it’s not dangerous. Just make sure it’s something you can both walk away from after with no hard feelings. We don’t need—”

Her comm buzzed on her wrist, and she tapped it.

“Fox, you done having a nap up in the docks yet?” Stickles.

“Just finishing,” she said. “We’ll be out in your airspace soon.”

“Good. I’ve just sent Redrum to do a cargo transfer and I need the remainder of the tugs out now. The Rimbolan freighter paid its fees and wants a push back up to orbit to do the rest of its repairs.”

“They got their life support back online?”

“So they say. Otherwise in about seventy-two hours we’re going to be calling in a bodywagon. I’m dropping the specs to your tug comp. I’m giving you full lead and the roster of waiting ships. Use your judgment. Check back in if you have serious problems. Otherwise, Ops out.”

“Well,” Khifi said. “I guess he’s not a micromanager. Suit up, and let me know when you’re ready to fly.”

“Got it,” Candles said.

Khifi turned to her own ship. The Lazy Dog was a typical Tanduouan tug, which meant it looked like a giant cyborg squid-crab with a mean case of engine. She retracted her own feeder lines, did her checks, then climbed the short ladder up its side and slipped down into the cabin. Inside, bathed in the blue-green glow of the console, she felt safe, strong, armored. She had never felt that way before she’d become a pilot, still never felt it anywhere else except in Lema’s arms. She was lucky, she thought, that neither got jealous of the other.

She buckled herself into her seat and initiated the internal system checks, then slipped on the comm headset.

“—ox? Fox, you online yet?” It was Jonjon.

“Just now,” she said. “What’s happening up there?”

“Mr. Balcko walked in. He and Stickles are arguing. I don’t know.”

“Jonjon, the line—”

“I’m on Ryeneck’s secret line. Something’s up,” Jonjon said. His voice was carefully casual, low. “I really don’t like the tone— Uh-oh, gotta go.”

She found herself listening to dead air. Shaking her head to clear out a sudden anxiety, she punched in the comm code for the spare. “Candles? What’s your status?”

“Ready to go in thirty count,” he answered.

“Launch as soon as ready, then proceed to the Rimbolan freighter docked at five through seven clockwise. I’ll be less than a minute behind you.”

“Got it,” he said.

“Redrum and Kaiju, you hear that convo?”

“Yeah,” Redrum’s gruff voice came on the line.

“I don’t like it,” Kaiju added.

“Whatever’s going on groundside isn’t our problem once we’re out. Stickles can handle it,” Khifi said. The last of her system checks returned green just as she finished speaking. She pulled her helmet down, reflexively checked her safety harness one last time, then fired up the engines. The Lazy Dog lifted off the floor, turning gracefully in the tight space of the bay.

As soon as she got into the bay envelope, it sealed behind her, and the exterior doors split apart like a metal egg hatching out onto brilliant sunshine. She checked her airspace display one last time to make sure nothing was in her way, then, satisfied her exit trajectory was clear, slid up the power on her engines.

She smiled, despite her worries, as her ship leapt out into the sky.

“Lazy Dog out,” she announced over her comms as she turned her ship around Paxillo’s tower, the bright orange disc of Guratahan Sfazil filling her peripheral view. She keyed in Redrum, Kaiju, and Candles into a local comm group. “Status?”

“I’m halfway to Luida to pick up a cargo pod,” Redrum said. “Turnaround in twenty min.”

“Good. Check in when you’re on your way back. Kaiju, meet me and Candles at the Rimbolan freighter. Let’s free up some dock space.”

“Got it,” Kaiju said.

The Rimbolan was a massive, oblong ship, pointed and slightly curved at the ends in a shape Jonjon once referred to as a “ginormous fucking canoe.” It had come in without prearranged berth or sponsor, paying triple fees for an expedited dock. Offloading it should have been a two-shift job at most, with three bay arms attached to it, but it had sat there locked up and unresponsive for nearly a full shift before its captain broke silence to issue a call for help. Major systems failure had swamped it with radiation, personnel were sick or dying, and its cargo was contaminated.

In dock, the freighter was covered under a number of interplanetary distressed vehicle and medical mercy laws. A handful of critically ill and wounded crew had finally been offloaded, at which time it was discovered that the ship, while Rimbolan in manufacture, had been sold to (or scavenged from a junk pile by) a private company out of Temperance Enclave. Another group of crew disembarked and was busy trying to find a buyer for their hot cargo, but no one was taking. Some of them had since disappeared, and the reigning explanation was that they had run away.

What mattered was that the freighter had run out of delaying tactics. She didn’t believe they had anything fixed, but if they stayed in dock long enough for Paxillo to call salvage rights over unpaid fees, assets claimed would likely include the crew themselves. How they’d scraped together enough to get back off the ground she couldn’t begin to guess.

It damn well better not break in half when we lift it, she thought.

She could see Kaiju’s tug Nobunaga, its hull painted with green scales, closing in on the far end of the freighter. Candles’ tug hovered near the gaping maw of the Rimbolan’s wide-open cargo bay doors. “Jonjon, bay doors aren’t sealed,” she said.

A moment later, he got back on the line. “Ship says doors no longer functional, but assure us the cargo is fully secured inside.”

“Has Terrapin verified this?” Terrapin was the Dock Inspector.

“No. Because of the radiation he was unable to go aboard.”

“Do we know that there’s a radiation leak?” Khifi asked. “I mean, other than the word of the ship’s captain?”

“There were exposed crewmembers brought in and sent over to Velatos for treatment,” Jonjon said. “What are you thinking?”

She passed over the freighter’s bow. “I don’t like it. Do we have a waiver from them, in case of damages?”

“No. Why?”

“Because if I were them, and as far in the red as they are with a junk ship, unsellable cargo, and salvagers circling in, I’d have spent the last four shifts taking off every safety in the ship, and if I finished with that, I’d be taking screws and bolts out of everything else, so that when the freighter breaks apart during our lift, we’re liable for ship and cargo and they walk away clean. We’re not touching it. Tell them sign a waiver, pay the next docking fee, or yield to salvage.”

“On it. Hold tight.”

Kaiju started lazy circles around the Paxillo tower, and after a few minutes Candles followed. Khifi pulled up the incoming ship registry and winced at the long list of ships waiting for a berth. Some had arrived only hours after the Rimbolan. Glancing overhead, it was definitely more crowded than usual.

“Fox?” Jonjon came back on the line.

“Here. What’s our status?”

“We’ve got a waiver, but whoa were they unhappy about that. I think I learned some new words. Seems like you called that one right.”

“Got it,” she said. “Candles, Kaiju? I still don’t want this thing dropping parts all over Paxillo when we pick it up. If they’re smart, they remembered where we grabbed on when bringing them down and made the most trouble there. So I want you both on the underside instead of top. Candles, take the cargo bay end. Let me know when you’re in position. I’m taking topside.”

“Which end?” Kaiju asked.

“Neither. I’m going for dead center. The bridge.”

Candles’ chuckle came over the line. “Perf,” he said. “Safest place, ’cause if the ship’s rigged, the people be all there for the ride up.”

“Jonjon, let everyone overhead know that once we get this thing moving, we’re heading straight up to orbit, and if they’re in our way that’s their own damned problem.”

“Already on it,” Jonjon answered. She wanted to ask what was going on in ops but didn’t dare, not on the main line.

The space beneath the Rimbolan was tight, but she knew Kaiju well enough to know he could handle getting in there, even upside down. Candles . . . well, as long as he didn’t break the tug itself, it was a good test of his skills.

She brought the Lazy Dog out over the top of the freighter, close enough that she could make out the shapes of people behind the thick window at the forefront of the bridge. At least one of them appeared to be shouting and making a rude gesture at her. Given that she was just about to drop a giant metal spider down on their heads, she figured they were entitled.

“In position,” Kaiju said.

“There most,” Candles added. “Three count. Two, one, done.”

“Okay. Hold there for a moment,” Khifi said. She brought the Lazy Dog down to barely a meter above the freighter’s bridge. Then she swung her tug’s arms down and one by one, like she was smothering prey, latched them onto the sides all around. “Okay. I want to do this carefully. Any time either of you feel like we’re moving too fast, you speak up, okay? Candles, I’m going to send the commands to the docking systems to disengage, and then the freighter is all on us. I want you to start lifting your end as soon as you feel the clamps let go.”

“Got you,” he said.

“Kaiju, you and I get to do the heavy lifting. I want to take the freighter vertical and out. Candles is going to keep the cargo bay end up and pointed in the right direction, and you and I are going to provide the thrust we need to get it entirely out of Tanduou space. If this thing is going to fall apart, I want it well out of everyone’s way when it does.”

“Ready,” Kaiju said.

“Sending the release signal . . . now,” Khifi said, and finished the sequence. She felt the drag of the freighter’s mass shift almost immediately into a pressure upward as Candles’ end began to climb. She rotated her engines to keep in sync with the ship’s angle and began adding lift as Kaiju got his own engines down and joined in.

Her instruments said they were nearing vertical and already close to a thousand meters clear of Paxillo tower. “Let’s hope they were smart enough to strap themselves in,” she said. “Anyone see signs of structural integrity problems?”

“Some debris dropped past me when we first started pushing, but nothing big enough to cause any damage,” Kaiju said.

“Candles, how’s your view?”

“Clear and good,” he said.

“Then let’s push it,” Khifi said, and powered up to three-quarters. She could feel the vibration of the freighter through her boots, but it was steady, felt right.

“You guys could have waited for me before you started the party,” Redrum’s voice came over the comms. Out of the corner of her eye, Khifi could see the Jolly Roger splashed in paint across Redrum’s hull as he flew up alongside them.

“There’s a small freighter named the Olympian Razor from Mars that’s been waiting for almost two days,” Khifi said. “Check in with ground ops to make sure no debris hit anything down there, then if it still looks good, bring her into dock five. We should be back by the time you’re done.”

If the Enclavers had tried to engineer a disaster, either they were terribly bad at it, hadn’t had enough time to do an effective job, or the old freighter still had some fight left in it. Probably some combination of all three. It soared up out of Tanduou’s feeble gravity well with surprising grace. They were well outside orbit zones for either Guratahan Sfazil, Tanduou itself, and the big planet’s tiny second moon, Tammou. “Powering down engines to minimum on three . . . two . . . one. Down. Candles, disengage. Kaiju, pop an all-channel navigation hazard beacon on it before you let go. They can scrape it off themselves when they get out of our space.”

“. . . Done,” Kaiju said. “Disengaging.”

“I’m untached,” Candles said.

Khifi retracted her tug’s spiderlegs one by one until she floated free of the freighter. She rarely got much past the swarm of ships surrounding the moon, and the view was beautiful. Guratahan Sfazil was an arid, golden desolation, pockmarked by the slowgrowing brown and green skunge of civilization. The half-circle glow of Tammou hung above, and it took her a few moments longer than it should have to notice the tiny glints between her and it. A small cluster of eight ships drifted there, seven small cargos and one sleek, military-style cruiser. A quick check showed them not in the queue for Paxillo, nor any of the other docks in the Velatos cluster.

Jonjon’s voice on the comms broke her away from her curiosity. “Fox? I’m on Ryeneck’s line again. There’s—”

“This is Paxillo ops.” The incoming official signal from Stickles cut off Jonjon’s connection. “Fox, is anyone currently engaged?”

“Redrum, status?” Khifi asked.

“Just settling the Marsies down now,” he said.

“Two minutes, ground,” Khifi replied down to the surface. Those two minutes went by in silence until she saw Redrum retract from the new ship safely tucked in dock. “We’re clear.”

“Cluster Manager Balcko has an announcement,” Stickles said.

Balcko came on the air. “Normally this is news the Dockmaster would pass on in person, but as you know, he is downplanet on business,” he said. “There was a tube accident a short while ago. One of the Paxillo staff—Airon Gofersen, also known as Goffs—has been killed. It appears to have been operator error. In respect for Gofersen, I am closing down Paxillo Docks for the remainder of the shift.”

Khifi couldn’t believe she’d heard right. “Goffs is dead?” she asked.

“Yes,” Balcko answered. “I’m sorry.”

“Should we . . .” What should they do? She didn’t know. She wanted to stay flying, as if it wouldn’t be real until she set foot in dock again. “Should we finish parking the last few—?”

“Paxillo is shut down effective immediately,” Balcko said. “That is all.”

“You heard the boss,” Stickles said. “Come on in.”

She was last down, Candles just ahead of her. Redrum had arrived first and was sitting between Jonjon and Sparkle. Mr. Balcko had already departed.

Stickles stood at the railing at the control platform, his face an unreadable mask. “I’ll see you all back here for shift tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime . . . well. Take time for yourselves and be safe.”

Jonjon stood up and put an arm around Redrum’s shoulders. “I worked with Goffs as my ops manager for four years before I switched shifts, and he was a good man,” he said. “I’m heading to the Hellwater for a drink, and I’m buying for anyone who cares to join me.”

“I’m in,” Sparkle said, putting the headpiece down on her console and standing up.

“Me, too,” Kaiju said.

“Fox? Candles?” Jonjon asked.

Candles started, as if surprised to have been invited. “Yeah. Didn’t know Goffs, but team is team.”

“One round and then I’m going home to my wife,” Khifi said. She felt sick.

“Stickles?” Jonjon asked.

“Maybe later,” Stickles said. “I have to make a call to the Gee, break the news to Quizzie and the Dockmaster. I’d rather they heard it from me.”

“Understood,” Jonjon said. “We’ll be there for a while.”

Khifi and the others stumbled into the elevators, leaving Stickles standing where he was, his head hung low, his knuckles pale where he gripped the platform rail.

• • • •

The Hellwater was in a dead-end spoke off Paxillo, and had long since earned its reputation as Velatos Cluster’s roughest bar, surpassing even the Brood and the Tarpit. Tanduou had started off life as a pirate haven before finding marginally more legitimate business as a shipyard and waystation; here in the Hellwater, Khifi felt closest to those early pirate days. She wasn’t sure that was entirely due to the wall of holoportraits of everyone who’d been murdered in the bar, divided into those justifiably killed, those sorely missed, and the largest section in between of those people who fit both categories. A lone portrait stood by itself, labeled “a lesson to others”—a nameless, offworld joker who’d thought it funny to put the bartender’s portrait up among the dead and got caught in the act.

Why no one had ever shut down the Hellwater—and right now the Brood was in another sixty-day time out for bad behavior—was unclear, but Khifi figured the fact that it was the pilots’ bar was a big part of it.

Now, though, the Hellwater was subdued, almost quiet, and that struck her hard. Goffs had been a pilot before he became ops; it seemed unthinkable that he could be dead when just a few hours before he’d been right there in control with them. He should be here with us now, dammit, she thought. Everything they’d been through, all the crazy, dangerous, drunken things they’d done, the idea that he’d die in a stupid tube accident was just wrong. And if he could slip up, which of them couldn’t?

Jonjon had claimed a large table toward the back, and the bartender—rarely generous—brought a tray of Sfazili Whiskey bulbs and set it on the table. As he passed by Khifi’s chair, he gently touched her shoulder. “Sorry,” he said.

Sparkle raised a bulb. “To Goffs,” she said.

“To Goffs,” the others answered, clanking bulbs. Khifi took a long sip, watched as everyone but Candles did the same.

“You okay?” she leaned toward him and asked.

He made a wry face. “Alcohol hurts the Colony.”

“First met Goffs back during the Henrici Dock crash,” Redrum spoke up. “We’d both showed up to see if we could help, got drafted as fire crew trying to get to the survivors in the tower. Saved some people, couldn’t others, never talked about it after that day. But when he needed another pilot on his team, he knew I wasn’t happy in Archasta and called me. Man was calm as ice in a fight, or at the helm, and I can’t imagine if Henrici never gave him the shakes how the fucking tube blinked him.”

“We get tired, I think,” Jonjon said. “We forget to pay attention. Wrong place at the wrong moment and that’s the end.”

“Ever try to sneak up on Fox when she looks like she’s lost in thought?” Kaiju said. “Because she ain’t never not paying attention.”

“You still have the scar?” Khifi asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she said, downing the remainder of her bulb, feeling it burn its way down. “Never put your guard down.”

“He tried that with me, too,” Redrum said. “I only kicked him.”

“See? Your lesson didn’t stick,” Khifi said. She pushed back her chair and stood. “Speaking of safe, stay at one bulb or stay out of the tubes, okay? Don’t make me come yell at your corpses, because I will and even dead, you will hear me.”

“You aren’t staying?” Sparkle said.

“Going to get home while I can,” Khifi said. She felt like she should say something else, unsure what wouldn’t sound sappy and drunken, when she glanced up at the door.

“Shit,” she said, instead. “Trouble.”

Burnout and two other pilots from Novodinia were walking in, and from their loose swagger the Hellwater wasn’t their first stop. He spotted Khifi’s group and pushed through the small crowd to their table. “Came by to pay our respects,” he said.

“That’s appreciated,” Sparkle said.

“I mean, you know,” Burnout continued, “kinda remarkable Goffs made it this long, given how shit—”

“You should leave it at just your respects,” Khifi interrupted.

Burnout blinked at her, then glanced around the unsmiling faces at the table. He broke into a big grin. “Aw, c’mon,” he said, “we all know his piloting skills is what grounded him in a chair.”

Before anyone could respond—Redrum was half out of his chair—one of the Novodinia pilots put a hand on Burnout’s arm. “We should just go,” he said.

“Naw, Stash. Pilots are all on the same team, right?” Burnout said. His gaze fell on Candles. “Except maybe this mutant freak here. I wondered where he slunk off to. Feeding the strays again, Fox?”

He reached a hand out, clearly intent on touching the Colony on Candles’s shoulder. As Candles leaned away, Khifi grabbed Burnout’s hand and twisted hard. Burnout let out a strangled cry and dropped to his knees.

Khifi leaned forward, still gripping his hand. “Next time you come to pay your respects in Paxillo, you might want to learn what that means first,” she said. “Or at least start listening to Stash, who’s a fucklot smarter than you.”

She let go and stepped back.

“Come on, Burn, let’s go,” Stash said, trying to help his friend up.

Burnout slapped his hand away as he got clumsily to his feet. “No way,” he said, “I’m not letting—”

“House bets on Fox, six to one,” the bartender called out. The entire Hellwater went silent, turning to watch. Burnout glanced around, not sure what was happening.

“Burnout, let me be clear,” Khifi said. “I’ve had a bad day and right now I would love an excuse to add your face to the wall. But you’re drunk and I’m not, and I wouldn’t want anyone doubting for a second that you’d lose just as fast in a fair fight.”

Stash pulled Burnout back. “She’s right,” he said, “and I’m halfway toward killing you myself for dragging me into this asshole move. We’re going. Now.”

If Burnout still wasn’t convinced, the collective groan of disappointment in the bar did it. He shook off Stash, made a rude gesture at Khifi, and stomped out.

“I’m true sorry about Goffs,” Stash said, and followed.

Khifi stood there until they were gone and the Hellwater stuttered back into life around them. “Well,” she said at last. “That was unpleasant.”

Candles stood. “Fox, you didn’t need to—”

“I did, Candles,” she said. “We’re supposed to be better than that, and dammit if I’m not going to act like we are.”

She walked out of the Hellwater and stood in the bright lights of the Paxillo corridor. Anger still burned—at Burnout for being a predictable asshole, at Goffs for being dead—and with the shot of whisky to fuel it, felt like it would not die low anytime soon. Not the right frame of mind for the tube, she thought. Walk it off. Get it out of your system. Go home when you’re ready. It’s not like Lema is expecting you for another seven hours.

She did have that errand to run to Velatos.

In addition to the interdock fastlanes, there was also an autowalk between Paxillo and Velatos. She stepped onto the wide, slow-moving platform, leaning against the rail as people rushed past her. Velatos was the central dock of the cluster that bore its name, Paxillo and the others arrayed around it in a circle. It was one of the largest docks on Tanduou, second only to Solaster and Leilaster, also centers of their own clusters. The floormover briefly skimmed along the surface toward it, an xglass arch crisscrossed by thick beams overhead. Before it gave way again to the monotony of carved rock, she could see that Velatos was buried in ship traffic, the usual flotsam of freighters, small cruisers, and scavenger ships. She watched a tug extricate one of the freighters with smooth precision before taking it back up into orbit, trying not to think about Goffs. Already another ship was being pulled down to take its place.

The autowalk was subsumed back into city and ended, depositing her at the edge of the Velatos Market. She moved through the crowd into the concourse. Xie’s store was hidden in the back corridors; not many locals had the cred to shop there. As Khifi walked in, self-conscious around the elegant glass that seemed to loom into her path, the bald, heavily bearded man looked up from his counter where he’d been reading on his handpad.

“Khif!” he said, genuinely pleased to see her.

“Hello, Xie,” she said. She was suddenly glad of the friendly voice, so thoroughly removed from the day’s events. “Lema wanted me to pick something up for her.”

He unlocked the drawers under his counter and rummaged through them. “How’s her latest project coming?”

“She doesn’t talk about the art until the art is done, not even to me. Besides, what can I say other than I love it or I don’t get it? I’m useless.”

He took a tiny, sealed box out of the drawer and set it on the counter. “Maybe you can convince her to use less wood in her pieces, or work smaller. Do you know how expensive it is to fab in that stuff?”

“She likes the feel of it. Says it reminds her of home. How much do we owe you?” Khifi tapped the box.

“Nothing, it’s on me.” He slid it across the counter to her. “Unnatural fondness for hard-to-obtain organic media aside, she’s made me a happy agent.”

She picked up the box, small enough to easily fit in her palm. “Uh . . . any instructions?”

“Yes. Let Lema open it, or she’ll be quite mad. And tell her I’m eagerly looking forward to her next piece?”

“Will do. Thanks, Xie,” Khifi said. She tucked the box into a jacket pocket, made sure it was zipped in tight, and left his shop. Conscious of it against her chest, she was less afraid of being alone with her thoughts on the long walk back to Paxillo.

The Market concourse was even more crowded now, and when she reached the large open floor she saw why. The Velatos Dock manager and a contingent of her upper staff were escorting a trio of tall, bluish-green, portly aliens across the space. The aliens looked halfway between humpty-dumpties and walruses, complete with meter-long whiskers, and seemed to be wearing gigantic purple leg-warmers on their elongated, flattened feet. Two legs, two eyes, she thought, thinking of Mole’s inevitable questions. How wide a range that covers.

She checked the time on her vambrace as she waited for the huddle of people to get out of her way, then glanced back up and did a double-take.

“Peezy!” Khifi called.

The girl was pale, wide-eyed, breathing in fast, shallow gasps as she slid along the wall, arms outstretched against it, her ragged coat unnaturally bulged out around her near-starving frame as she followed the aliens. She froze at Khifi’s call, glanced at the departing delegation, then back at Khifi. “You can’t be here!” she called back, her voice barely audible over the crowd noise. “Please, I can’t . . .”

“Can’t what, Peezy? Are you okay?” Khifi asked. She held out her hand as she walked quickly toward her.

Peezy turned her face away and suddenly sprinted into the back of the moving delegation.

All Khifi’s own years spent living in the crawlspaces of Tanduou had honed instincts that hadn’t dimmed; she threw her hands up over her ears and turned away just as something clapped her on the back, hard, slamming her down onto the polished rock floor.

It took her a few moments to piece together what her body was telling her: pain from her hands and elbows where she’d hit the floor, a prickling along the back of her neck and head as if tiny darts of fire had lodged there, sound muted as if her ears were full of sludge. It was several moments longer before she recognized the screaming and alarms and the acrid smell of smoke for what they were. She tried to push herself up, but vertigo and a stabbing pain in her back sent her crashing back down again.

After a bit, she was able to roll onto her side.

The concourse was in chaos. Fire suppression bots flew in and out of the smoky haze as people rushed back and forth through it. Most were bystanders; emergency responders and security were just starting to flood in. A young woman in a med vest stopped and crouched over her. “How badly are you hurt, ma’am?” she asked.

“Not as bad as others,” Khifi said. “I can wait.”

The woman started to straighten up, then spotted Khifi’s badge. “Oh!” she said. “You’re a pilot! Let me get you out of here—”

“No, really, I’m not hurt bad,” Khifi said, not at all sure if that was true. “There was a delegation moving through. It’s hard to think. Are . . .” She knew it was a dumb question, but couldn’t not ask. “Are people going to be okay?”

“No,” the medic said. “No, they’re not.”

She stood up, snapped her fingers. Another medic with an autotravois came over. “Get this one to the group C triage and checked out.”

Khifi tried to stand on her own, but couldn’t pull together enough strength to rise. The med shook her head. “It’s not special treatment,” the med said. “Think of it like this: We need you out of the way, too. This is us doing our jobs.”

“Okay,” Khifi said.

The other medic lowered the autotravois and helped shift her onto it. Already there was a growing line of injured people on other stretchers, and one by one the medic connected them up and began leading the grim train back out of the concourse.

• • • •

They released her from the overcrowded med bay three hours later, a half-dozen pain patches and blisters of plastiskin dotting her back beneath her tattered and grubby red shirt. She had been told in no uncertain terms not to go too far; as a witness, investigators would want to speak with her as soon as the immediate crisis was over. If she wasn’t a pilot, she wasn’t sure they’d have let her go at all. Even then, going home wasn’t straightforward. Sections of Velatos were cut off by blast doors she’d only seen closed during drills. With the acrid smell of smoke pervading everything and the stricken faces of people as they scurried through the newly placed obstacle maze, the doors were more ominous than reassuring.

She was exhausted and more than a little unsteady with the amount of pain drugs soaking into her back. The box she’d picked up at Xie’s shop was battered around the edges but miraculously not crushed, and a gentle shaking of the box did not produce the woeful chorus of broken parts she’d feared. It was easier to worry about the box than think about Peezy, or the Velatos Dock manager and her alien guests; word had rippled through the medical bay that Dock Manager Le had been killed, along with her security chief and four of the six Yuaknari visitors. The prevailing theory was that the bombing was Humans First extremists targeting the Yuaknari, but no one really knew.

Bypassing the damaged and cordoned-off areas meant detouring out of Velatos to Oreasta Dock, and from there taking the autowalk back to Paxillo. It was hard to wrap her head around the idea that Goffs had died this very same day.

Reality still hadn’t fixed itself by the time she reached the Paxillo tube station, but the meds were starting to make it harder and harder to care. She bypassed the fast lane and went all the way down to the guided tubes, which were computer-controlled, dead-last for priority, and moved about as fast as rock crept across sand. Buckling herself into the sled, she leaned her head against the hard cushioned side and let her mind drift.

She had dim memories of the sled finally arriving, then being at the door to her tiny apartment. Letting herself in, she saw Lema hard at work at her desk, goggles on, back straight, hands moving slowly in the empty air over her tablet as she worked a 3D simulation only she could see. Khifi smiled; the world narrowing to just this place, just the two of them, and things were miraculously, mostly okay after all.

Khifi slipped off her boots as quietly as she could, tiptoed past Lema’s workspace, and tumbled, already half asleep, face-first into the bed.

• • • •

Waking was a slow climb up, fighting the gravity of grief, exhaustion, and the lingering pull of the meds. Finally, Lema’s voice broke through and lifted her the rest of the way. “You awake?” she was asking.

“I am,” Khifi answered, mostly convinced it was true.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar, an idiot, and I’m very angry with you,” Lema said.

Those also seemed likely true. “Oh,” she managed. She still hadn’t decided if she was going to open her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t expecting you back for nearly another hour, and I get up to go beep some food and find you collapsed on the bed covered in bloody bandages.”

“Sorry,” Khifi mumbled again.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were home?”

“Didn’t want to bother you.”

“Idiot. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Liar,” Lema said. “Xie called to ask if you’d made it home safe. What the hell were you doing in Velatos?”

“Dock shut down. Went to get your thing.” Khifi cracked open one eye, but could only see Lema’s thigh where she sat beside her on the bed. “I may be lying on your box,” she added. It was hard to separate out the various discomforts.

“Wait,” Lema said. “Why was the dock shut down before the bomb? The docks never close.”

“Goffs died. Tube accident. Everything’s gone all wrong and none of it makes sense.”

She was aware of the shift in the bed as Lema got up, and must have dozed off because next thing she knew Lema was beside her again and touching her shoulder gently. “Can you sit up?” Lema asked. It took her a few moments but she did, and blinked blearily as her wife pressed a steaming mug into her hands. “Drink this.”

Khifi took a sip; it was one of Lema’s expensive, imported teas, a blend handpicked by monks on Fadsji. She’d always been more of a coffee person, but it was warm and the rich fragrance was comforting. She suspected that was because she associated it with Lema. “Thanks,” she said.

Lema reached past her, picked up the half-crushed box, and tucked it out of the way on top of the nightshelf. “So. Tell me.”

• • • •

Khifi had been nine when she hopped a cargo freighter out of her home colony. By ten, she knew every crawler in Velatos and most from neighboring Myonota and Freyella clusters. She knew the location of every fixed electronic eye and which corners they were blind to, and she could pick out the hum of a floater above all but the loudest crowds. Tanduou thrived by treading the gray area between security and privacy, and crawlers took advantage of the lack of an omnipresent surveillance state in the same way all the back-dock dealers and covert arms merchants did. Systems had been updated and changed over the years, but she’d never lost the instinct to notice and remember them. It was not a challenge to slip out of sight.

Maintenance corridors ran behind the public spaces. The service hatch was right where she remembered it being, the seemingly random marks beside it crawler code for the current nesters. None of them were familiar. Although stories of generations of crawlers were shared and reshared, an oral history perpetuated by the need to get through one day after another and the long slow nights in between, everyone who had been part of her nest was long gone. The crawl only tolerated adults in memory.

She climbed through the hatch and crouched on the far side as the door shut behind her. Crossing into the crawl after all this time was a punch in the gut. Everything felt smaller, dirtier, more unremarkable than it used to.

She turned on the handlight she’d brought. The tiny tunnel leapt into stark relief.

Walking bent over under the low ceiling, she followed a pipe, looking for the remembered crack in the wall hidden behind it. She barely fit through. On the far side was another tunnel, and she followed that until it turned, sloping downward. More pipes appeared from out of the ceiling and walls, slowly filling up her available headspace until she was afraid she might have to get down on her hands and knees. Did she really call this home for nearly six years?

There was another dip in the floor, this one sharp enough that she almost fell, catching herself with hands on the rough rock wall. Once she got down to where the floor was level again, she could walk almost upright. Memories of running, hunched over, through the tunnel and leaping down off that dip into what felt like open space seemed almost fantastical now. I was always trying to fly.

From here it was easy. Three turns, and then a long wide stretch where thick sewage pipes ran overhead. Every six hours the pipe system was flushed out with steam, so this was one of the rare places in the crawl that was comfortably warm. It also caused a sticky dust layer to form over everything; she’d spent hours trying to get it out of her hair and clothes until she gave it up as futile.

She’d hoped Mole would be here, or Birdie, but the corridor was empty save for the thick mat of insulation scraps and packing foam that made up the crawler nest. In one corner she spotted an old blanket she’d given Birdie years ago, now coated with the same dust as everything else here.

As she stood there trying to decide where to go next, she saw a rough-cut foam block shift slightly. “It’s Fox,” she called out softly. “I’m by myself. I came looking for Mole.”

After a long moment, the block shifted again and a face peered out from beneath it. The boy’s face was swollen, one eye shot red and surrounded by a black-purple bruise. He’d been crying.

“Gums?” she asked. “Can I come closer?”

He nodded, trembling. She moved slowly, taking a pack of vitawafers out of her pocket. Crouching, she held the pack out, and he sat up and took it. He was gaunt, shirtless, and his upper body was covered with ugly bruises and a sour-looking gash crusted with blood. Reaching over her shoulder, Khifi peeled off one of the med patches on her back, shook it to make sure it still had some life in it, then carefully spread it over the cut. “This will help a little,” she said. At least it should clear up the infection, if not much else. “What happened? You were with Peezy.”

The boy started, dropping the wafers, and began shaking in earnest. “Was here,” he said.

“You and Peezy were here? When you got hurt?”

“No,” he said. “Man who catched us, he was here.”

“He caught you here?”

“No. He was here now. Just before you.”

Khifi stood, pulling a blade from where she kept it tucked at the small of her back, half-expecting to find someone looming up behind her. The corridor remained empty and she heard nothing but the faint susurration of the pipes. “What did he look—” she started to ask, but Gums was back under the foam, out of sight. The wafers, moments ago scattered across the floor, were gone with him.

This time, when she turned around again, she was not alone.

“Fox,” Mole said. He was standing near the turn in the corridor, a half step from being able to disappear. He looked unhappy to see her in his home territory. She couldn’t blame him; adults in the crawl were dangerous.

“I came to ask you about Peezy,” Khifi said.

“You seen her?”

“I saw her,” she answered carefully. “She ever talk about aliens? You know, in a scared or angry way?”

“Peezy loves the bugs. Nearly gotten caught a hunnerd times out in the open, making pictures. Always wants to go see ’em, then talks about it no-stop for days.” Mole moved into the room, fear forgotten, and rummaged through a corner of the nest. He came up with a handful of vellum sheets and a handpad.

Mole handed her the sheets. On them were passably good drawings of an E’zon, a Tuarig, and two aliens she did not recognize. The girl had had some real talent. Khifi’s eyes teared up, and she wiped them with the back of her hand.

“Peezy not coming back,” Mole said. It wasn’t quite a question.

“No, she’s not.”

Mole inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out again. “Okay,” he said.

“Can I keep these?” Khifi asked.

“Yeah.” He dropped his hands to his side, the handpad dangling from his fingers.

“What’s that?” Khifi asked.

“Dunno,” Mole said. “Never seen it before right now. None a’ ours.”

“May I see?”

He held it out. The surface was still shiny, free of crawl dust. Khifi turned it on. The Humans First logo flashed up onto the screen, and she turned it off with a startled jerk. “Are you sure this wasn’t here before?” she asked.

“Sure sure,” Mole said. “Not like we got so much nice stuffs we can keep any secret from t’other.”

That much she certainly remembered from her days in the crawl.

“Gums said there was someone here, the man who’d caught him and Peezy,” Khifi said. “You need to go through this whole place and make sure there’s nothing else, and then I think you all need to find a different place to nest for a bit. The harder to get to, the better. Where’s Tuck?”

“Waiting ’round the corner,” Mole said. “What’s going on, Fox?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s over. Be careful.”

“You too, Fox,” he said.

“Don’t forget Gums.”

Mole almost smiled. “Forget nobody,” he said, “’til they forget us.”

She tossed the handpad in the first flash recycler she found. Two more off-shifts before she was flying again, and if she couldn’t be home, she wanted nothing so much as to be a half-hundred kilometers above it all.

• • • •

When she rejoined the upper world and the Paxillo concourse, the crowds were noticeably thinned and most were gathered near the center where a column of large screens normally ran the endless litany of trading news, ship arrivals and departures, and gossip. Now, Mr. Balcko’s face was on every screen, a dozen mouths moving simultaneously. “. . . has been successfully removed, with no remaining danger to the citizens of Oreasta,” he was saying. “I will be following up with casualty information from Notomyo as soon as the emergency teams have finished their work. If anyone has information, or saw anything suspicious prior to either incident, please contact your nearest security officer. Be assured, we will catch the perpetrators of these acts. Thank you.”

Balcko’s face disappeared, replaced by the familiar scroll of the hourly trade bulletin.

One of the Paxillo cargo haulers stood not far away. Khifi touched his broad shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said. “Something happened since Velatos?”

“Bomb in Notomyo about half an hour ago,” he said. “They just found another in Oreasta before it went off. Whole cluster is in security lockdown. I tell you, if I find those assvalves what put the bombs? Then someone really get hurt. No one messes with Tanduou, not our people, not our bugs, not our nothing.” He looked her up and down. “You’re a pilot, right? You get me.”

“I get you,” she said.

He grunted, nodding, and went back to watching the boards.

Khifi’s vambrace buzzed. She tapped it, and Inchbug’s voice echoed out of her earpiece. “Fox?” she asked. “Mr. Balcko asked to check if you were going to the security debriefing about the Velatos bomb.”

“Yeah. I’m on my way now,” she said.

“Balcko said you were there?”

“Close enough for a few new scars,” she said. “How are things up there?”

“Balcko called in terrorism experts from Haudernelle. Uberman docked them about an hour ago, but other than that nothing is moving up here at all.”

“What about the Rimbolan freighter?”

“The Enclavers loaded up everything they could fit in a shuttle and abandoned it. Unofficially, of course, so we can’t declare salvage rights for three more days. I’m heading over to Luida to fill in for a sick comm op, so see you when I see you. Be careful, okay?”

“I try,” she said.

“Try harder.” Inchbug signed off.

Khifi made her way over to a long, winding, reinforced corridor that ended in thick xglass doors with PAXILLO SECURITY stenciled on them in large block letters. The officer at the doors scanned in her id. “Room three, at the back.”

“Thanks,” she said, and went in.

Room three was a small, nondescript conference room. Paxillo’s head of security, Chief Bell, sat there with another security officer with a Velatos patch and chief’s stripes that looked—and likely were—newly sewn on. Two more men in suits sat with them.

“Ah, Fox,” Chief Bell said, standing up and extending his hand. “I trust you’re recovering?”

“Nothing that’ll slow me down,” she said, taking the one free chair.

“This is Acting Chief Tres of Velatos Dock. Joining us is Mr. Allen and Mr. Arve, who just arrived from Haudernelle. They’re private consultants here at the behest of Mr. Balcko,” Bell explained. “If you could go through what brought you to Velatos Dock, anything you might have seen, impressions you have, we’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll do my best; my memories are kind of fuzzy and unreliable,” she said. “I’d gone to Velatos on a shopping errand, and was on the way back. I had just seen the aliens in the concourse when the bomb went off.”

Mr. Arve leaned forward and opened a display window on the tabletop. “Ms. Iwalewa—”

“Call me Fox,” she said reflexively.

“There is limited security footage of the incident,” Arve said. “We’ve identified the bomber as an illegal underground squatter. We believe she and other ‘crawlers’ have been actively recruited by a hate group called Humans First.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Khifi said.

“No? We have the detonation on video.” Arve tapped open a picture. Peezy was standing near a column, expression unreadable, the Yuaknari delegation in the foreground passing by. He tapped the picture again, forwarding it. “And here you seem to be speaking to her.”

“She looked scared,” Khifi said.

“You knew her?”

“A little. I know for sure she didn’t hate aliens.”

Arve’s partner, Allen, folded his arms over his chest. “Hate groups are very good at radicalizing the underprivileged, many of whom are desperate for a purpose or an opportunity to hurt those more fortunate than themselves. Each and every one of them is a ticking time-bomb. You’re naïve if you think otherwise.”

“Mr. Allen, you’ve been on Tanduou for what, an hour now?” Khifi said. “Tanduou’s crawlers are here because whatever life they walked away from was even worse. They want to be left alone. They don’t have an agenda beyond that. They’re kids.”

“So you did talk to her?”

“I asked if she was okay,” Khifi said. “She ran off, and after that I only remember the smoke and the alarms.”

“So you knew she was the bomber and didn’t disclose this sooner?”

Khifi sat up straighter, met Allen’s eyes without flinching. “I don’t know anything for sure, but if Peezy did have a bomb, it’s because someone forced it on her. Word was someone had grabbed her a few days earlier, and another crawler barely got away with his life. That’s who you need to be looking for.”

“How do you know this?” Arve asked.

“Fox has lived in Paxillo most of her life,” Bell interjected. “She knows many of the local crawlers and has a degree of their trust, which has been an asset to us in a few situations over the years.”

Arve pulled up another picture. “This was our Notomyo bomber,” he said. It was a crawler boy, maybe barely ten. “Humans First propaganda was found on him. He had a handpad we were able to extract the memory from, and it had a propagandist video blaming aliens for the poor conditions so many humans live under. It was compelling. Mr. Balcko has initiated a sweep of all the underground areas to look for additional evidence.”

Khifi pounded her fist on the table. “If there’s evidence, it’s planted,” she said. “There have been strangers down in the crawl, going through their things, leaving stuff, just like this handpad you talk about.”

Allen’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you have proof of this?”

She thought about the handpad she’d stuffed in the flash-recycler. “No,” she said at last. “But the crawlers—”

“Are not exactly reliable sources,” Allen said. “You seem to have a lot of information that you are conveniently only sharing now. If these things happened, why weren’t authorities informed?”

“Because no one else cares about the crawlers,” she said.

“Well.” Allen stood up, and after a moment, Arve did too. “We certainly do now, don’t we? I believe that will be all.”

“For now,” Arve added. He was already tapping at his wristcomm as the two consultants left the room.

“Sorry, Fox,” Chief Bell said. “We’ll get to the truth of this. It just might get ugly for a while, while we do.”

She stood. “It’s ugly enough already,” she said. “But thank you for the optimism.”

Frustration propelled her back up the corridor and into the concourse, and a halfminute later she found herself moving through the doors into the Hellwater, half hoping Burnout would be there and say something stupid to her face.

You’re losing it, Khif, she thought. She ran one hand over her short, wiry hair and stepped up to the bar. “A Ceres Triple,” she said, and the bartender set one in front of her before she’d even blinked. She downed it in one shot, then stared morosely at the empty bulb until a hand gently touched her shoulder.

She spun, half-reaching for her knife, when she recognized Stickles.

“Saw you come in. You okay?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “No, I’m not.”

“You want to talk? I know I’m not Quizzie, but you know I’ve got your back.”

Khifi pushed the empty bulb away. “When I went with Candles to do his flightcheck, he caught on immediately that his engines sounded wrong. Someone had stuffed a sock in one of the air intakes. Most people don’t listen enough to pick something like that up, but he did. A lot of people would’ve told him he was imagining it.”

Stickles nodded. “Told you he was good.”

“Yeah, but here’s my point,” Khifi said. “All that’s going on? With the bombs, and saying the crawlers are behind it? Even with Goff’s accident. It sounds wrong. It sounds like someone has stuffed a sock in Tanduou’s engine, pitch is a half-note off from the truth, and I’m not sure anyone is hearing it but me.”

Stickles stared down at his hands on the bar. “I trust your instincts, Fox, but damn. What have you got?”

She told him about Peezy and Gums, the Humans First handpad, the stranger in the crawl. “She drew pictures of the aliens, Stickles,” she said, pulling the vellum sheets out of her jacket and spreading them out on the bar. “Do these look like the art of hate?”

“No,” he said. “But . . . if not the crawlers, why pin it on them? What does anyone gain?”

“I don’t know. It makes no fucking sense.”

“You told the consultants?”

“Some of it,” she said. “I don’t think they were listening. I’d be happier if we were relying on our own people rather than outsiders to sort out what’s going on.”

He considered. “What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know,” Khifi said. “Keep our eyes and ears open, listen for everything that doesn’t sound right, make sure all the facts are out there before anything is done that can’t be undone. What else can we do?”

“I guess just that,” Stickles said. “If you find out anything more, you’ll tell me?”

“Yeah.”

He pushed back from the bar. “I’m covering Ops for your shift again. So maybe we should talk it over then, after we’ve had a chance to think about it?”

“Yeah,” she said again.

“Better than just sitting here drinking all day,” Stickles said, “although I won’t pretend I don’t see the appeal. Go home, Fox. You look like a bomb hit you.”

“Har har,” she said, but he was right. Stickles left. She swiped her credit chit over the bar, added a healthy tip, and headed home.

• • • •

“Khif, I love you, but if you don’t stop fidgeting I’m going to smother you with your own pillow,” Lema murmured.

• • • •

Khifi stomped toward Paxillo’s main concourse. She had a crick in her neck from spending most of the night in a chair, and her stomach had wound itself into so many knots she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel hungry again.

Her thoughts lost in a maze of whys and what-ifs, she had taken several more steps before her brain registered that someone had whispered her name. She stopped, turned, saw the small alcove in the corridor full of piping, thought she saw uneasy shifting in the shadows.

Walking back, she casually leaned one shoulder against the wall beside the opening, taking out her handpad as if checking an incoming message. “Mole?” she asked softly. He was there, his face and eyes red and puffy as if he’d been crying. She heard a sob, but it didn’t come from him. She spotted a tiny, dirty face behind the bigger boy.

“This’s Tuck, new kid I told you bout,” Mole said.

“You two aren’t safe out here, even on good days,” Khifi said. “You come across the wrong security guard, and you’re going to be joining the bone pile out an airlock. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Nowhere safe in the crawl,” Mole said. “Lots of people, no uniforms, but move like authority and got guns. Birdie ain’t come back yet and Gums ran away last night and there was alarms and we was scared. Ran into Terkle an’ he said same thing happened over in Luida Dock. Some’a us gonna try to get over to Odinella cluster, but that a hard journ. We got nowhere else to go and Birdie’s not here being in charge and Tuck is always crying and hungry and there’s doors down and smoke in the crawl.” Tears began making fresh tracks down his dirty cheeks. “Can run, but only by myself.”

“Mole, look at me,” she said, and he raised his face to hers. “Try to find a safe place, somewhere you wouldn’t normally go. Doesn’t need to be comfortable, just hard to find. If you can’t find anything—and this is last resort, you understand?—there’s a shop in Velatos Dock owned by a guy named Xie-Yan Che. He’s a friend of mine. If you go, you can’t steal from him, not even a little, not even once. You understand that? Tell him Khifi sent you. That’s my real name,” she said.

Mole shivered. “Telling names is bad luck, Fox. If you see Birdie or Gums—”

“Just go,” Khifi said. “Be smart. And if you can get yourselves out of the cluster? Take it.”

Tuck wrapped his skinny arms tightly around her legs, just for a moment, then Mole grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the dark. She watched after the door closed for a long while and wondered if she’d ever see either again.

She drifted into the Paxillo concourse, eyes on the distant elevators up to Dock control. The footsteps were just part of the background noise, one set slightly offbeat among dozens, until she thought she heard Mole, impossibly, calling her name over the noise.

Oh, you fool kid! she thought, whirling around to confront him for following her out into the open.

She got her arm up just in time to block the blade, but it hit her vambrace with enough force to make her stumble back. Her attacker was dressed in grubby clothes, a young man with wild eyes, dilated pupils, a crawler by all the looks of him except he was too old. “Humans First, Humans forever!” he shouted, raising the knife again.

Around them the crowd had fallen back. “Put the knife down!” she yelled, backing away. “I am not your enemy!”

“You bring them here. Your alien masters!” He rushed her but she was ready, dodging away and pulling out her own knife.

“You don’t want to do this,” she said. Where the hell was security?

He swung wide and she dodged again, but this time he brought his other hand around to grab her arm, then kicked at her legs. It was a glancing blow, but enough to send her sprawling onto her butt on the floor. He was grinning now.

Khifi threw her own blade. It caught him in the shoulder and he dropped his knife. She scrambled to her feet, cursing the lingering stiffness from her Velatos injuries, and had another knife drawn from her boot by the time he had pulled hers out and was brandishing it back at her. He tried the wide swing again, probably hoping to catch her the same way he had before, but she anticipated the move and feinted to the left, then moved under his swing and kicked him sideways, hard in the chest.

Her attacker stumbled back, landing on one knee. People behind him scrambled out of his way. Getting up, he grunted, stabbed forward at Khifi with her own knife, and when she stepped back out of his reach he turned abruptly and fled through a scattering, panicked crowd.

She stood, breathing hard. Someone had just tried to kill her. The realization of how close he had come—if she hadn’t turned, or had turned a half-second later—hit her like a rock, and she turned and ran for the elevator doors.

There was no guard at the gate. She hopped it, scanned herself in, and threw herself into the first elevator that opened, feeling like she couldn’t breathe. Tapping madly at her damaged vambrace, she tried to call Lema, but it made a sickly buzz before going dead.

The elevator opened onto the control deck, and she was nearly knocked over by the security guard who should have been manning the gates below. “Fox! So sorry, I need to go, there’s something going on down—” He paused, getting a better look at her. “— You okay?”

“Someone tried to kill me,” she said. She unwrapped her dead vambrace from her arm, only then realizing her jacket was soaked dark with blood.

Stickles was up on the command platform with Mr. Balcko and a pair of guards. “Fox?” he asked. His eyes were wide.

Jonjon was, as always, beside the coffee dispenser. He walked forward and pressed his mug into her shaking hands. She was grateful for the warmth. “Some guy with a knife. He ran away.”

Balcko turned to the guard. “Go find out what happened. Have a word with Mr. Arve and Mr. Allen, and send security up. This is unacceptable.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard said, and vanished into the elevator.

Candles put a gentle hand on her elbow and propelled her toward one of the unused console seats near Sparkle, who was busy on the ground comms.

“We’re in full security quarantine now,” Stickles said. “Mr. Balcko will be overseeing things from here until his team gives the all-clear.”

“When is the Dockmaster returning?” Khifi asked.

“Not until the active situation is over,” Balcko said. “Mr. Lohra has elected to remain on Guratahan Sfazil rather than risk becoming another target. In the meantime, as the most senior Cluster Manager, I am in charge.” He said that last as if he expected to be challenged on it.

She had no intention of doing so; with the Dockmaster gone, someone needed to run things, and Balcko was right that he was most senior. “Of course,” she said. “Just let me know what you need me to do.”

“Although we’re not open to normal business, I have a cargo crate of medical supplies that needs to get to Novodinia from Astrolyr in the Myonota Cluster,” Stickles said.

“Okay. I can take it,” she said.

Kaiju stood. “No,” he said. “She’s hurt. I’ll go.”

Stickles glanced at Khifi, then at Kaiju. “Of course,” he said. “We’re still waiting on that medic. It’s all yours.”

Kaiju nodded and left.

Khifi looked down at her arm. Blood was crusting dark along the slit in her sleeve where the edge of the vambrace had been. Now that adrenaline was wearing off she felt cold all over.

When Sparkle paused on the comms, Khifi asked her, “Where’s Knits?”

“Weren’t expecting any work to do with the docks shut down,” said Sparkle. “I’m only here because we’re still shifting some stuff in cargo. Inchbug is supposed to be coming in. It’s bad down on the floors, and is only gonna get worse when word gets out that someone tried to kill a pilot. Hang on, cargo biz.” She went back to her headset.

Jonjon was explaining the coffee dispenser to Candles and Balcko was busy with Stickles, so she rolled her chair over to Inchbug’s empty station. Above, the endless shuffle of ships was at a standstill. Down where the Rimbolan freighter had been, a small, sleek military-style cruiser had taken its place at one of the berths.

“What’s that ship doing here?” she exclaimed.

Sparkle put one hand over her mic. “That’s the security consultants that Mr. Balcko brought in from Haudernelle. Allen and Arve and crew? Didn’t you meet them?”

“That ship was in outer orbit when we took the freighter up,” Khifi said.

“Can’t have been. First bomb hadn’t happened yet.”

“It was here,” Khifi said. “I saw it with my own eyes, that ship and a handful of cargos. I never forget a ship.”

“I don’t—” Sparkle started to say, when the elevators opened and a pair of security personnel from Velatos came in.

Mr. Balcko stood up. “You two will please escort Ms. Iwalewa down to secure holding and process her for arrest, on charges of aiding and abetting terrorists,” he said. At everyone’s look of confusion, Balcko stabbed a finger at Khifi. “Right, idiotic superstitious nicknames. Fox,” he said. “Her. Arrest her.”

“What!?” Khifi said, already rising to her feet.

“You confessed to Mr. Easson— Stickles—that you deliberately destroyed evidence from the crawlers to hide it from our investigators,” Balcko said.

Khifi stared at Stickles. “That’s a misunderstanding,” she said. “Stickles, tell them—”

Stickles didn’t meet her eyes. “She was drunk, over at the Hellwater,” he said. “Lots of people will confirm we talked. She told me of her involvement in the crawler attacks.”

“That’s a lie!” Khifi shouted. The security guards glanced at Balcko, then began moving toward her. Both had hands on their pistols.

“Stickles?” Khifi said. “Don’t do this to me.”

“It’s on your own head, Fox,” he said, looking down at his hands.

“There’s something going on here,” she said, desperate. “Those Haudernelle security consultants are a sham. That ship was in orbit when we took the Rimbolan freighter up, before the very first bomb. And—”

“If she says one more word, shoot her,” Balcko snarled.

Sparkle, Candles, and Jonjon were all staring. “I’m being framed,” she said, raising her hands, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. “You all know me.”

As one of the guards reached for her arm, the elevator behind them chimed and the doors opened. Inchbug stepped in carrying a tray of takeout.

“Hey, everyone, I brought—” she started to say, then stopped mid-sentence. “— What the hell is going on?”

Both guards turned toward her.

“I know you enough,” Candles said, and in one blinding-fast move struck out with a hand, knocking the nearest guard down.

Shit, Khifi thought. She hauled the other guard off-balance toward her and brought his head down in hard contact with her knee. As he dropped, she ran past him, sprinting for the still-open elevator doors.

“Stop her!” Balcko yelled. Stickles was staring, his face pale. The guards up on the command platform scrambled for their weapons, then dodged as a full pot of coffee came sailing over the railing, leaving a spinning trail of near-boiling liquid along its arc.

“It just slipped out of my hands, I swear!” Jonjon yelled, his eyes wide with what seemed genuine surprise.

Sparkle had both her hands raised. “I have nothing to do with any of this!”

Khifi threw herself into the elevator past a still-stunned Inchbug just as the doors closed. With everything on lockdown, and not even the crawl safe, there was nowhere to run except up. She stabbed the button for the docks and hoped Balcko’s men weren’t going to be fast enough to stop her.

She reached the bays. Slamming and locking the door behind her, she shorted the lock with her knife before racing over to the Lazy Dog and powering it up. She wanted to jump in and fly away as fast as she could, but she remembered Goffs, dead of an apparent accident just as everything else started going wrong. She wanted to scream as she moved around her ship, checking everything, listening, hoping, until her breath caught.

A single coupling dangled loose beneath the Lazy Dog’s belly, just barely visible in the shadows. That’s a cooling line, she thought, reconnecting it, then checked the others. All six were undone, their ends tucked up out of sight.

Balcko wouldn’t know to do that; he wasn’t a pilot, had come up through the ranks via security. Stickles, though . . . Stickles who had just tried to send her out on a cargo run.

I trusted him, Khifi thought. I thought he was a friend.

He also knew enough to know that the coolant couplings wouldn’t change the engine pitch, not until the ship started to overheat. She furiously wiped tears from her face as she reconnected the last of them. Everything else checked out. If she’d missed those, she’d have plastered herself and her ship all over Paxillo and taken the truth, whatever it was, with her.

At the helm of the Lazy Dog, she reached under her console and yanked free the tug’s beacon. Then she hit her engines and was out and moving up into Tanduou’s crowded skies.

Now what? she thought. It was only a matter of time before Balcko mustered someone to come after her. Or no time at all: She could see another tug, coming fast toward her from the other side of Velatos Tower. As if on cue, Kaiju’s voice crackled to life on her comms.

“Fox?” he said.

“Yes, Kaiju?” she asked. What else was there to say?

“I’m on Ryeneck’s secret love line,” he said. “I’m getting some weird instructions from Paxillo control that I do not like. Do you have any insight on this?”

“Does it involve shooting me out of the sky as a traitor?”

“As it happens, yes,” Kaiju said.

“This whole thing: Goffs, the bombs, hate groups recruiting crawlers—it’s rotten. I started to ask questions and someone tried to knife me, and then my ship was sabotaged. Stickles and Balcko are saying I’m a terrorist, and I have no proof to convince you I’m not.”

“Very well, Air Captain, you don’t leave me much choice,” he said. “I’m going to hail you on the official comms and tell you to land or be brought down, and then I’m going to chase you straight up right on your ass like bugs fucking, in that maneuver that messes up tower radar like nothing else. You better have a plan by the time I need to say I can’t catch you after all.”

She already was nose up and heading for space, intent on reaching Guratahan Sfazil and the Dockmaster. Above her the sea of waiting ships was parting, getting out of her way.

Inchbug’s voice cut in on the main comms, which the Lazy Dog should have been blocked from. “Transit Sat Four moving into position,” she said. “Should have weapons tracking in . . . Oh! It’s just rebooted. Signal loss for twelve . . . eleven . . .”

Khifi punched the Lazy Dog’s engines up to full, Kaiju right on her tail. She couldn’t get to the Gee in the time left. Between here and the planet, heading straight out, there was only one thing. “You’re gonna want to suddenly break off in three,” she said to Kaiju.

The abandoned Rimbolan freighter lay dead ahead, its wide cargo doors still gaping open. Pulling all the Lazy Dog’s arms into tight formation around the tug’s body, she aimed for the opening.

“Online in four . . . three,” Inchbug said. Kaiju’s tug, the Nobunaga, veered, just enough to skirt past the outer hull of the freighter as the Lazy Dog was swallowed whole.

She hit the braking jets hard, throwing herself forward against her harness, and hoped the former owners had done a thorough job of taking as much with them as they could. The Lazy Dog had more armor than some light military cruisers, but hit the wrong thing in the wrong way and anything could rip you open like you were paper.

The far end of the cargo bay loomed ahead, closing fast. A large pile of crates floated around the disabled cargo drones. Khifi braced herself as the Lazy Dog bowled into the abandoned cargo and came to rest in a pile of them.

She jumped in her seat as something red oozed all over the front window of the Lazy Dog. It was a long, terrible moment before she realized it was vegetable pulp seeping out through tears in the flexible crate material currently plastered across her front hull. Inflatable crates and rotten tomatoes. She started laughing, couldn’t help herself, nor as it quickly turned to all-consuming sobs. Goffs was dead. Murdered? Stickles had betrayed her to her face. The idea that she might never see her wife again was a tiny seed of a black hole in the center of her heart, threatening to pull in and crush everything she cared about.

No, she thought, pulling herself together. I’m not done fighting yet.

Her systems were still mostly green. She’d scraped off a few external antennae, but nothing worse. As quickly as she could, she shut down her engines and used her fine maneuvering thrusters to turn around to face out of the long tunnel from her pile of crates, a spider at the back of its cave ready to jump.

“Lazy Dog?” Her comms crackled to life again. “This is TexLex over in Luida Dock, calling on the Ryeneck Line.”

She stared at it. Who could she trust? Maybe this was a stalling tactic to keep her pinned down. You are anyway, she told herself. “Fox here,” she said, keeping her voice as even as she could.

“All of Velatos is shut down and Paxillo control is currently offline,” TexLex said. “I assume either because of mutiny, or because the mutiny is over. There’s no longer a safe channel between you and your team.”

“No offense, TexLex, but I don’t know you,” Fox said. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Don’t got an answer for that, Fox,” TexLex said. “Sure would like to know what kind of a shitwell you got my Inchbug spinning down into, though.”

Ah. Khifi knew Inchbug had a partner in Luida Dock. “The crawlers didn’t set the bombs, and they’re being framed,” she said. “If I can get back down, there’s someone I might be able to get answers out of.”

“And how are you gonna do that?” TexLex said.

“I don’t know. I—”

“Right fuck you don’t, because you can’t. You’re stuck in your little hidey-hole. What is that thing Inchbug is always quoting you for? Being your best as a team or no good at all? Well, being a captain means not just leading, but trusting your team, and like it or not you’ve drafted a lot of us into your mess.”

“I trusted Stickles.”

“Yeah, well, Stickles is nice enough, but you can only trust him to look out for himself. Asking more from him is like trying to get beer back outta piss. You say it’s not the crawlers? Give us a chance to prove it. But do it fast, ’cause half the cluster is rioting and Balcko and his offworld security team are rounding up every grubby kid they can lay hands on. As soon as Balcko manages to negotiate a price with one of the ships in orbit—halfa which saw right where you went and are trying to figure out what that info is worth in both creds and trouble—you’re done. Your time is running out.”

“You know a mover named Sniv?”

“By sight and smell,” TexLex said.

“He tried to hire me as a tour guide to the crawl right before this mess started. That can’t be coincidence.”

“We’ll find him. Anything else?”

“Yeah. My wife, Lema,” Khifi said. “I don’t think Paxillo is safe, and she should get out if she can. Please tell her I love her and I’m sorry.”

TexLex’s voice was softer when she replied. “Will try, Fox. Hold out if you can.”

Khifi disconnected and stared out through the frozen streaks of tomato pulp at the small square of space at the end of her tunnel, braced for the moment when it became the end of her life.

• • • •

When her comms came back to life nearly an hour later, she wished it was TexLex again, but it wasn’t. “Ms. Iwalewa,” Mr. Balcko’s voice came over the docking control channel. “As soon as I find out which ship is sheltering you, I’m going to blow it and everyone in it out of orbit. Is that what you want? More innocent dead?”

“Find me if you can,” she said.

“Or . . .” he said. “I have these buttons here in the Dockmaster’s private office. Do you want to know what they do? This one locks down residences. Not unreasonable during martial law. How about apartment 4188 in the orange block of Paxillo Deep? Middle of the night, door already locked, who would notice?”

That was Khifi and Lema’s apartment. “Don’t—” she started to say.

“Oh, and did you know I can also not only turn off oxygen, but turn on reclamation to filter it back out?” he said. “It’s not fast, but it is thorough. I wonder how long it’d take to scrub the oxygen out of a space that small? A few hours?”

“Mr. Balcko, Lema has nothing to do with any of this,” Khifi said. “Let her go and I’ll agree to whatever you want.”

“I don’t know how much use that would be to me. You’ve already badly interfered in my business,” Mr. Balcko said. “I’m going to think about your offer for a while and get back to you.”

Balcko was gone. Khifi let out a cry of rage and punched the console. Even the dampers in her suit glove weren’t enough to soften the blow and, needing the pain, she punched it again, harder, until her fist felt on the verge of breaking. She had no leverage to force Balcko to let Lema go, nor any confidence he’d keep his word even if she did everything he said.

One thing she knew, she couldn’t just sit and wait for Balcko’s next move. She unbuckled from her seat and pulled on her exosuit. There was a spare vambrace in the utility locker along with a handful of idled bots. She slipped on the vambrace with gratitude and synced it to her tug’s systems, tucking a crackbot into the exosuit’s pocket.

Cycling herself out the Lazy Dog’s airlock, she checked her sensors. As she’d expected rads were off the charts, but her suit could handle it for five or six hours before it became a concern. She’d be lucky to live that long anyway. She had to shove several leaking crates of miscellaneous goo away from the bay’s back wall to uncover the main control console, but it was still live. She pulled a cable from her tug’s underside over and jacked it in.

That connection was purely information-transfer, but having the freighter’s full eyes and ears in addition to the Lazy Dog’s would help. It wasn’t, however, enough.

There were times in the life of a tug pilot that you had to move someone who didn’t want to be moved. Taking the crackbot from her pocket, she thumbed it on and let go. The bot hovered midair for a few moments, then zipped across the short space to attach itself to the console. It extended several hair-thin needles into the case and blinked in escalating complexity. Khifi left it to do its job and climbed back into the Lazy Dog.

She didn’t know what good having control of the Rimbolan would do her, but she didn’t have enough resources to be picky. She was conscious of every breath she took, of another’s running out.

Back at the helm, she routed signals from the freighter’s sensors to her secondary display. Pulling up her data from earlier, she compared it to the cruiser parked in Paxillo: same ship, without a doubt. The public docking feeds had it listed as the Escarre, with a South Haudernelle registration too recent to be entirely believable.

It had not been in orbit alone, and one of the seven small cargo ships she’d seen it with now sat in dock between it and the Martian freighter Olympian Razor. She’d hardly begun a scan before the rest jumped out at her: one each in the other six docks of Velatos cluster. Whatever was happening had been planned well in advance, and she had blundered right into its path. I wonder what Goffs did to get in their way, she thought. And if either one of us slowed them down at all.

Her console pinged. The bot reported back that it had easily rerouted the freighter’s command systems and transferred control to her helm.

Tugs didn’t receive public broadcast feeds because they were a potentially lethal distraction in the air, but she piped them in now via the Rimbolan, pulling up Velatos official news. The very first image on the screen was a stillpic of Candles. “No, no,” she said, turning the audio up.

“. . . temporary assignment in Paxillo Docks. He fled during the mass arrest of the conspirators led by Iwalewa, but was later seen being shoved out an airlock by masked people with anti-althuman slogans inked on his body. Cluster Manager Balcko released a statement that it is believed that members of Iwalewa’s group targeted him out of concern that during his time working among them he may have unwittingly gained information or been able to identify more members of the conspiracy. Shortly after—”

Khifi closed the feed. They killed Candles and blamed me for it . . .!

Anger was a star igniting. She punched her comms, trying to reach anyone on Ryeneck’s secret line.

“Can’t talk long,” TexLex answered.

“Tell me you have good news, TexLex. Tell me someone got to my wife and warned her to get out.”

“We tried, Fox. The tube lanes under Paxillo have been shut down for hours now, and cluster comms are keyed to emergency personnel only.”

“Balcko is killing her,” Khifi said. “Right now. And I can’t do anything to stop him. And Candles! I didn’t—”

“Save the timewidth for things we can’t guess on our own,” TexLex said.

Khifi gritted her teeth. TexLex was right, of course. “The cargo ships that came in, one per dock.”

“Balcko’s consultants ordered them. They’re rounding up every single crawler in Velatos and say they’re holding them on the cargo ships until it can be determined if any of them have legal status, or which are involved in Humans First. And after the latest bombing and Candles’s death, it’s probably safer for them than out on the floors,” TexLex said. “People are angry and not thinking, and no one inside Velatos is hearing a story other than Balcko’s. The entire cluster is in riot.”

“Kaiju . . . Did he get home safe?”

“He left right after he chased you up,” she said. “Said he had something to do, then went offline.”

“The rest of my team?”

“Not sure, but we think they’re being held on one of the cargo ships.”

“I’m sorry,” Khifi said. She wanted to cry. “Everyone is going to die because of me.”

“Fox! Snap out of it. Lots of people could still get dead if you give up and let Balcko win. The only reason he hasn’t wiped out all of your team is that he hasn’t got you yet. He turned you into his convenient fallbody thinking you’d be easily caught, but he can’t find you. Somebody got word out that if any of the ships in orbit ratted on your location, they’d be cursed by a lifetime of shipping mishaps. Other clusters seem to be unsure what to do or what side to take, so no one’s talking to Velatos from the ground either. You and Balcko both backed yourselves into corners.”

“But he’s got all the cards,” Khifi said.

“Not all. We got Sniv. Dirtnapper and TugThug are talking to him now,” TexLex said. “Come on, Air Captain. You’re mid-job and your whole team is on the line. What do we do?”

It was so hard to think. “We need to know everything Sniv knows,” she said. “Record it, then send it on every public channel you can get on. Everyone needs to know Balcko is behind the bombings, not the crawlers, not my team. Every single death needs to be marked against him.”

“Got it,” TexLex said. “Balcko’s imported security team is about to sweep here again, so I’ve gotta be scarce for a bit. Later.”

Khifi was beginning to hate the amber light of a closed connection.

She turned the newsfeed back on to watch about three minutes footage of a fullscale riot erupting in Notomyo; a family of Ijt, including their young offspring, had been found butchered outside the closed tube station to Freyella Cluster, the words Non-humans go home or die! scrawled in their blue-green blood on the floor. Rioters had entered the crawl intent on finding the perpetrators, and what few crawlers were left were fleeing toward Balcko’s cargo ships as the only option left to them. She didn’t recognize any of the dirty faces shown being hounded across the concourse, but she knew the fear on them only too well.

She turned the feed off, stewing in her inability to act.

“Fox!” TexLex called over the comm. “Can you get news feeds?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Then hold on for some epic Sniveling,” she said. “I uploaded Sniv’s confession to a friend over in Solaster, and he’s passing it on to others. In about two minutes Balcko won’t have anywhere to hide on Tanduou. I’m outta here for now. Good luck, and I’ll be back in touch if I reach somewhere safe.”

Khifi turned back on the news feed just as Balcko called. “Ms. Iwalewa. I hope you haven’t been holding your breath waiting for my call. If you immediately return to Paxillo and hand yourself over to my security consultants and sign a full confession on the terrorism charges for aiding Humans First, I could see being more merciful toward your friends.”

“Like you were merciful to Candles?” Khifi asked.

The line was silent for a moment. Is he trying to figure out if I have proof of that, she wondered, or what to throw at me next?

“I don’t think you’ve got the right attitude yet,” Balcko said.

“And I don’t think you have much time left,” Khifi answered. “Have you watched the news?”

“I control the news,” Balcko snarled.

“Yeah?”

The news feed switched over to Sniv’s face, puffy and red. “It was Mr. Balcko’s idea,” he was saying. “All Balcko’s idea. He planned the whole thing. I was only an advisor on a few technical details, nothing illegal!”

Khifi could hear Balcko shouting at someone over their open link. “Find it and kill it!” he was screaming.

“Problems, Mr. Balcko?” she asked.

“You and your wife are dead,” he said.

“I already knew as much,” she said. “Just returning the favor.” The comm link cut out somewhere amid her last few words.

“—Humans First,” Sniv was saying. “No, I mean, the bugs are easy targets, get people angry, focus that anger on the illegals down in the crawl. Now they’re all packed up and ready to go and who really is going to miss them, especially after this? In a few years we’ll have a whole new crop of ’em.”

“So this isn’t about the aliens and human supremacy?” someone asked. It sounded like TugThug.

“Noooo, it’s about the crawlers,” Sniv said. “We’re just cleaning up the garbage in Velatos and making a bit of profit at it for our troubles.”

Below her, a tug she didn’t recognize soared into Paxillo airspace, deftly undocking the security consultant’s cruiser. It rose quickly with the tug, the cloud of ships above parting again. As she watched, another tug pulled one of the cargo ships free from Novodinia and began its ascent.

“No!” she shouted. Balcko was not going to get away that easy. She ran through the hijacked controls to the freighter, found what she was looking for: three sets of subcompartment blast doors to the cargo bay. She watched as her distant square of open space narrowed to a slit and disappeared. Two sets fully closed, one jammed at eighty percent. Close enough. The main cargo bay doors were still wide open.

She powered on the Rimbolan’s engines and began drifting toward an intercept point with the cruiser. Bet you’re not looking up right now, she thought.

The tug released the Escarre as soon as they were through the field of waiting ships. She could now make out the giant yellow smiley-face painted on its nose, Xs for eyes. Burnout.

Burnout dipped down, beelining for the cargo ship still on the ground in Paxillo.

“Just you and me now,” she said, eyes riveted on the cruiser. She pushed the engines up to full. The Escarre must have noticed her at the last moment because it began to turn, but the wide maw of the giant freighter caught it nearly nose-on. Khifi braced against her console as the cruiser punched through two sets of subcompartment doors before becoming wedged fast, fully two-thirds of the ship swallowed by the Rimbolan. The freighter complained desperately across her boards about multiple hull ruptures, red and yellow warning lights blinking frenetically. For all that the freighter was already abandoned and dying, she felt a pang of guilt for the catastrophic damage.

She flipped on her comms. “This is the Lazy Dog, calling the Escarre,” she said. “Are you prepared to meet my demands?”

It was Stickles who answered. “Fox,” he said. “That was incredibly stupid of you. Think what you could still lose. Your wife could still be saved if we acted right now. The question is, do you love her enough to save her?”

“Oh, fuck you and your manipulative bullshit,” she said. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“Do you know how much cred your useless crawlers are worth on the open market? They’re young, they’re tough, they’ve got no one who cares what happens to them. And they’ll be better off, be taken care of and fed regularly in exchange for their work. They’ll be valued. This is a private channel, just you and me, so I have no reason to lie. You could save your wife, maybe get a small share of the profit, and help your crawlers find a better life.”

“So human trafficking is altruism, for you? What about all the people you’ve killed, whose lives you’ve destroyed? Do you think they don’t matter? You bombed your own people, you killed Goffs, you murdered aliens to cover your actions. Don’t you think that matters?”

“To be honest, not really,” Stickles said. “If not us, it would have been someone else eventually. You just can’t understand that, can you?”

“Where is the rest of my team?” Khifi asked.

“They’re on one of our ships. If you want to see them again—”

“Stop with the threats. Land the three cargo ships you’ve had lifted and let everyone on board all seven of them go. And then we can negotiate.”

“Enough of this.” Balcko cut in on the line. “Ms. Iwalewa, I admire your resourcefulness, but we’ve got a ride coming to pick us up and you won’t be coming with us.”

The Rimbolan’s proximity alarms flared, and she glanced over at the sensors in alarm. There was a tug positioning itself above the freighter’s long topdeck, a cutter attached to its underside. Right on cue, Burnout’s voice was added to the comm traffic. “Hello, Fox,” he said.

“Hello, Burnout. You come to kill me?”

“On Balcko’s orders, of course,” he said. “Clever of you to get him and Stickles to confirm Sniv’s confession on your private line, not knowing you were piping it over the freighter’s systems down to the public feeds in Tanduou.”

“It seemed a conversation worth sharing,” Khifi said.

“Burnout, enough of this; kill her,” Balcko said. “You have your orders.”

“I do,” Burnout said. “Now shut up for a minute. Fox, remember in the Hellwater when you said that, if you beat me, you wanted everyone to know it was a fair fight?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Well, this ain’t one either. We’ll settle this on the ground, if you make it.”

Burnout disconnected.

“Where the hell is he going?” she heard Balcko ask, as Burnout’s tug fell to one side and headed back to Novodinia.

Khifi smiled, powered up the Rimbolan’s engines.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Balcko demanded.

“Escalating,” she said. The freighter was struggling to turn, maneuvering engines reporting varying degrees of dysfunction or overload, but once she got it pointed the way she wanted to go, the main engines accelerated decently. She wished she could see the bright yellow face of Guratahan Sfazil beyond Tanduou, see its second moon Tammou one more time with her own eyes, but she didn’t figure it ultimately mattered; it would hurt just as much to hit.

Someone onboard the Escarre figured out where they were going; her boards flared in alarm as an escape pod ejected from the cruiser without being fully clear of the cargo bay and turned itself into a brief ball of fire at the lip of the Rimbolan’s mouth. The remaining maneuvering thrusters on that side of the ship went offline, but she wasn’t planning to change course anyway.

“Ms. Iwalewa, stop this freighter and we’ll let your teammates free,” Balcko’s voice came over the comms.

“Mr. Balcko,” she said. “And here I was hoping the escape pod was you.”

“That was your friend Stickles trying to cut and run,” he said. “Not much of a loss. So, I’ll give you your teammates back and you let us off this ride, yes?”

“No,” she said. “You let my teammates free, and you let all the crawlers go, and then maybe I let you off this ride.”

There was a long pause, then a very hate-filled, “It’s a deal.”

“I’m not sure that deal’s still available,” Khifi said. “Let me think about it and get back to you.” She cut the connection to the Escarre.

Below, she watched a trio of tugs appear heading up from Henrici Dock in the Myonota cluster. They straightlined for the cargo ships that were no longer in dock. The cargo ships scattered, trying to evade, but the sky was still crowded and the tugs faster and more maneuverable. She watched as one by one the ships were pulled back down to ground. A suited team emerged on the surface from inside Luida Dock and swarmed over one. The bright sparks of cutting torches were tiny flares on her display screen.

As if in sympathy, a few more red alerts on the Rimbolan’s sensor feed lit up. “What the hell are you up to?” she asked, but she already knew. They were desperate if they were firing the cruiser’s weapons inside the cargo hold. So far the last remaining set of doors between them was holding.

The barrage stopped and didn’t start up again. The one remaining functional sensor reported exactly what she expected: movement.

Still not that easy, she thought. She activated the hull breach systems. Only about a third of the sprayers were online, but they were most likely enough to fill the bay with fast-hardening foam. She wondered if they’d be able to get back inside their ship before it solidified, or if someone was going to be carving their corpses out as part of a final salvage job. Assuming there’s any piece of us left bigger than a pebble.

“Fox, this is Siren in Henrici cluster.” Her comms reactivated. “TexLex is on the move and offline, and I’m your new designated ears. Four of the cargo ships surrendered without a fight and released all their passengers. Luida and Velatos Docks stormed theirs as soon as they landed. Paxillo’s security chief Bell apparently had a disagreement with Balcko’s consultants and went missing, but we’ve got a team from Paxillo, Oreasta, and Novodinia retaking Paxillo Dock as we speak. We think your teammates and Bell are aboard the cargo ship there, and there’s signs of fighting inside. As soon as we’ve got the control room, we’ll do what we can to try to help your wife. But it’s been . . .”

“But it’s been too long. I know,” Khifi said. “Thank you for trying.”

“This is TexLex back on ground in Luida.” TexLex came on the line. “We have another ship incoming!”

Khifi’s heart, already shattered by the day, seemed to grind itself to a fine powder of despair. “Not more—”

“It’s the Nobunaga!” Siren said. “Kaiju has come home!”

“Hey, Siren!” Kaiju got on the line as well. “You miss me?”

“Always, monsterboy. Who else I gonna put my cold feet on when I sleep? Where the hell did you go?”

“I went to pick up some stranded friends,” he said. “Where’s safe to land in Velatos?”

“Luida is now,” TexLex said.

“Then we’re coming there. Hang on.”

“Fox,” TexLex said. “You can slow that hunkashit down now. They ain’t going anywhere.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got this,” she said. She checked the Rimbolan’s sensors again, saw that nothing new had failed and she was still on course for a hard meet with Tammou.

“Air Captain, stop or I’ll come get in your way and make you kill me, too,” Kaiju answered.

“No,” she said. “I’m still your air captain, and I order you to stand down.”

Another voice came on the line. “I override that order.”

The Dockmaster.

“Told you I picked up some friends,” Kaiju said. “I got through to Quizzie on private channels and found out they’d been cut off from all offworld feeds, and every time they tried to leave, they were told there were mechanical problems in dock.”

“Fox,” the Dockmaster said. “You haven’t changed course or speed.”

“They killed my friends, sir. They killed my wife.”

“So you think we should lose more people?” the Dockmaster said. “What about the rest of your team? Don’t you think they need you—that you all need each other—more than ever right now? This is not the only way to serve justice.”

“Sir,” she said. It felt like begging.

“You still haven’t changed course,” the Dockmaster said.

“Please, Fox?” Quizzie asked.

“Fuck this shit all to hell,” Khifi said, wanting to throw and smash and kick something. Anything. She could barely see through the flood of tears as she reached for her connection to the Rimbolan and cut the freighter’s main engines, flipped on the brakers. She tapped her comms one last time. “Acknowledged,” she said, then shut the line down.

• • • •

Kaiju picked up the cutter from Novodinia and brought it up, carefully lifting free the hull plates above the Lazy Dog. When there was a big enough hole, Khifi used two of her tug’s long arms to push herself free of the freighter. From the outside, the Rimbolan was a spectacular mess. The Escarre had nearly split it apart, jagged tears along much of the length of the cargo bay, plates warped and buckled, hull struts protruding like broken bones.

“Whoa,” she said.

“Don’t forget, they signed a damage waiver,” Kaiju said. “I think we’re still good.”

She laughed at that, despite all.

Khifi followed the Nobunaga down, and when Kaiju turned toward Paxillo, she didn’t even think to question it. She climbed out of her tug, walked through postlanding procedures as if she was on autopilot, as if they still mattered, and her hand lingered on the Lazy Dog’s tomato-splattered hull as she went.

“They retook Paxillo while I was on my way up. We needed our coffee machine back,” Kaiju said. As the doors on control opened he held out a hand. “After you, Air Captain.”

She stepped onto the control floor and stopped. Standing there was the Dockmaster and Chief Bell, and behind them in a semicircle was Redrum, Jonjon, and Inchbug with her arms around someone she could only assume was TexLex. Jonjon’s arm was in a sling, and both Redrum and Bell were sporting swollen and bruised faces, but everyone was smiling.

“Welcome home, Air Captain,” the Dockmaster said.

“You’re all alive,” she said.

“You should’ve seen Jonjon,” Inchbug said. “Never would have thought he had that kind of a fight in him.”

“I bit someone,” Jonjon said, beaming with pride.

“I . . .” Khifi started to say, but it was all so overwhelming that she just stood there in shock.

“Fox!” Sparkle called from her comm station. “Foible’s team is on the line! She’s not there!”

“. . . What?”

“Your apartment! Foible and Grippy cut the door down. There’s no one there.”

Her knees gave out, sending her tumbling. Kaiju caught her halfway to the floor, and he and Bell helped her into a chair. She was barely sitting before she tried to stand again. Both men put hands on her shoulders to keep her from rising. “Xie’s,” she said. “I have to get to Xie’s.”

“It’s not safe to go down there yet,” the Dockmaster said. “There’s still most of a riot going on, screens were smashed, and while everyone on Tanduou now knows your face, not nearly as many know you’re not the enemy. I’m bringing in extra security from all over Tanduou to put the riots down. Give me a chance to do that first?”

She didn’t want to wait at all, not one extra second, but she knew he was right. She nodded.

“Dockmaster,” Sparkle said. “Quizzie is calling from the secure dock. They’ve got Balcko down using a rescue pod.”

“Chief Bell, with me,” the Dockmaster said. “Fox, will you accompany us?”

“Yeah,” Khifi said.

She followed the Dockmaster and Bell down through the tower and into the docking corridors, straight to a heavy door. There were two Luida security officers there waiting outside with Quizzie. “Not a word out of them,” Quizzie said. “They tried the door a couple of times then gave up.”

Chief Bell unlocked the door and stepped back as it rumbled open. Balcko, Arve, and three other men stood waiting. Arve’s weapon was on the floor at his feet; from the expression on his face, surrendering his weapon was not his idea. “Dockmaster,” Mr. Balcko said. “I’m sure if you let me explain—”

The Dockmaster raised a hand, and Balcko fell silent. He turned toward the other man. “I assume you’re either Allen or Arve?”

“Arve,” Arve said. “My crew and I are foreign nationals and we insist on our right to speak to a representative of our colony before giving any statements or being subjected to any legal proceedings.”

“Both Haudernelle ambassadors expressed disinterest in speaking with you,” Chief Bell said.

“We’re not from Haud—”

“No? You came here under a South Haudie flag. I see no reason to look elsewhere for someone willing to claim you,” the Dockmaster interrupted. “Where is Mr. Allen?”

“He and our pilot left the Escarre in an attempt to reach Ms. Iwalewa and negotiate,” Balcko said. “They didn’t return and we were unable to get the airlock door open again.”

“You’ll find them stuck in hull foam aboard the Rimbolan,” Khifi said. The Dockmaster’s lip twitched up in a faint smile.

“You have no proof of our wrongdoing,” Balcko said. “Only her word and that of people obviously under her influence.” He pointed at Khifi. “Sniv is one of her creatures, not mine, as are the crawlers. That’s well known.”

“Let’s ask one,” the Dockmaster said. He turned to a familiar if unexpected figure at her side. The change in context threw her badly, having not seen the youth in weeks, and then last scrounging for food scraps with Mole at his side, caked in crawl dust.

“Birdie!” Khifi said.

“Hey, Fox,” Birdie said.

“Birdie, were the crawlers being recruited by Humans First?” the Dockmaster asked.

“Nope,” he answered.

“That’s good enough for me,” the Dockmaster said. He held out his hand and Chief Bell slapped his pistol into it.

“Wait!” Balcko said, raising his hands.

The Dockmaster shot him in the head, and whatever thin denials Balcko had left died with him. “Justice, Fox. Properly administered by the authorities, and with no further collateral losses,” he said. He handed the pistol back to Bell. “This is why it’s always useful to have a source of inside information. Right, Birdie?”

“Right, Uncle,” Birdie said.

“Chief Bell, what’s the situation down on the floor?”

Bell had just been checking his comms. “Concourse is cleared, everyone is under curfew until further notice,” he said. “We have a lot of crawlers in cargo warehouses throughout the cluster. Some need medical care, and they’re all hungry.”

“Get food and water to them. Tell them they’re not in trouble and we’ll be talking to them and letting them go free as soon as we know it’s safe.”

“Not all will want to talk,” Birdie said.

“That’s okay, too.” The Dockmaster turned to Fox. “Now. You wanted to go to Xie-Yan Che’s shop?”

• • • •

It was so hard not to run, not to fly across the concourse to that tiny shop. Only the thought that Lema might not be there, might have been caught up in the disaster somewhere else where she’d never be found, slowed her steps until she was a walking war between anticipation and dread.

Xie’s door was locked with curtains pulled across the shop windows, but he opened up on the second chime. He looked haggard, anxious, but his eyebrows went up in delight. “Khif!” he shouted, flinging himself through the door and pulling her into an embrace.

“Xie, you’re the best agent a sculptor could have, but if you don’t let go of my wife and get out of my way I’m going to crush you into a tiny little ball of a man and throw you down the hall,” a voice said from the doorway, and Khifi froze.

Xie let go and stepped back, and it seemed almost faster than light could move that her wife was wrapping her arms around her. Khifi could feel tears on her neck, and was struck by a mortifying guilt. “I tried to get word to you, to get you out,” she said. “I tried, Lema, but I failed. I thought Balcko killed you.”

“You did get word to me,” she said.

“What? How?”

Lema nodded her head toward the shop door. Peering around the corner was Tuck. “Mole dropped him off here,” Lema said. “He told Xie about the attack on you in the concourse and that he thought we were all in danger, and Xie called me.”

“Is Mole still here?” Khifi asked.

“No, he left right after,” Xie said.

The Dockmaster coughed gently. “Birdie went to find him,” he said.

“Are you okay?” Lema asked Khifi.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Peezy’s dead, and Candles—”

“They couldn’t find his body,” the Dockmaster said.

“What?”

“After he was thrown out the airlock. He disappeared. You know that the Colony are also oxygen-injectors? If he managed to get indoors again fast enough . . .”

“Oh, I hope so. He was a good kid. Good pilot, too.” Khifi sagged against her wife. “I still can’t believe you’re okay.”

Lema straightened up. “I’m not okay,” she said. “I saw my wife’s face on the news as she was branded a terrorist and mass-murderer. I watched riots break out and people forming hunting parties to look for her, and I am not okay with that. I don’t think we’re ever going to feel safe here again. I know I won’t.”

“What do you want us to do?” Khifi asked.

“Go somewhere else. I can work anywhere, but you . . . you need to choose.”

“I’ve been here almost my whole life. Everything I know is here. Where would I go? What would I do?”

Quizzie coughed. “I wasn’t going to pass this on for obvious selfish reasons, and I want you all to appreciate how conflicted this makes me,” she said. “The Olympian Razor, the Martian ship that’s been in dock through this whole mess? Sent me an inforeq as to whether you were on contract and if so, if it could be bought out, in the interests of extending you a job offer. Apparently you impressed them.”

“. . . What?” Khifi said.

Quizzie rolled her eyes. “It was a terrible idea to ram the cruiser with the Rimbolan, but it was still beautifully executed,” she said. The Dockmaster held out a hand, and she passed him her handpad with the message on it. “And if I had to guess, they must be Free Marsers, because they seemed just as taken with your willingness to defy authority.”

“I know some of these names,” the Dockmaster said. “They’ll treat you fairly and well.”

“I don’t know,” Khifi said. She looked to Lema.

“I admit, I like the idea of being near Earth again,” she said, “but it’s up to you.”

“You’ll keep an eye on the crawlers?” she asked the Dockmaster, and he nodded. She looked back to her wife. “Then yes,” she said. “I can’t bear ever living through another day where I don’t know you’re safe.”

“Good,” Lema said. “And we’re bringing Tuck.”

“Do you need me to send someone for your things?” the Dockmaster asked.

Khifi smiled as Tuck wrapped his skinny arms around her legs again. “No,” she said. “I have everything that matters right here.”

• • • •

The Olympian Razor was already back in orbit when Khifi took the Lazy Dog up out of Tanduou space for the last time. A battered but unbroken Mole had seen them off at the dock, Birdie by his side. He declined the offer to come with them. “Learning textwork,” he’d said. “Earn my own way out.”

“After we dock and transfer, how does your tug get back down? Autopilot?” Lema asked.

“No,” Khifi said. She smiled. “Wait and see.”

• • • •

The Olympian Razor took the jump point from Guratahan Sfazil in toward Haudernelle, first of several hops on the long trip to Sol, with a large, spider-like barnacle clinging to its back. If anyone in Paxillo had expected otherwise—and she had no reason to doubt they had—no one dared call her on it.

Systems on minimum, Khifi sat on the small couch behind her pilot’s chair, her head on Lema’s shoulder as exhaustion settled in. Tuck was asleep beside her, barely a lump buried under a blanket.

“Khif,” Lema said, her voice a whisper. With effort, Khifi opened her eyes. In her hand, Lema was holding the small, badly flattened box from Xie’s. “Open it.”

Khifi took it, popped the seal. Inside was a silver shape, elegant and curving in the distinctive way of all Lema’s designs. “It’s beautiful,” she said. Nodding her head forward she slipped the necklace on and felt the metal warm against her skin. “What is it?”

“An Earth bird,” Lema said. “It’s called a stork.”

“Oh,” Khifi said, none the wiser. She closed her eyes and leaned back against Lema, listening to the low hum of the Lazy Dog’s systems and the slow heartbeat of her wife, both of them reassuring and steady and familiar, and let sleep catch her at last.

© 2016 by Suzanne Palmer. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Suzanne Palmer is a writer, artist, and Linux system administrator who lives in western Massachusetts. She has won both the Asimov’s and AnLab/Analog Reader Awards for her short fiction. Her first novel is forthcoming from DAW in 2019.

EXCERPT: The City of Lost Fortunes (John Joseph Adams Books)

Bryan Camp | 5420 words

The post-Katrina New Orleans of The City of Lost Fortunes is a place haunted by its history and by the hurricane’s destruction, a place that is hoping to survive the rebuilding of its present long enough to ensure that it has a future. Street magician Jude Dubuisson is likewise burdened by his past and by the consequences of the storm, because he has a secret: the magical ability to find lost things, a gift passed down to him by the father he has never known—a father who just happens to be more than human.

Jude has been laying low since the storm, which caused so many things to be lost that it played havoc with his magic, hiding from his own power, his divine former employer, and a debt owed to the Fortune god of New Orleans. But his six-year retirement ends abruptly when the Fortune god of New Orleans is murdered and Jude is drawn back into the world he tried so desperately to leave behind. A world full of magic, monsters, and miracles. A world where he must find out who is responsible for the Fortune god’s death, uncover the plot that threatens the city’s soul, and discover what his talent for lost things has always been trying to show him: what it means to be his father’s son.

“A deft and expansive fantasy imbued with real magic and wild plot turns.” —Kelly Link, author of Pulitzer Prize finalist Get in Trouble

Forthcoming April 17, 2018 from John Joseph Adams Books (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt)

In the beginning, there was the Word, and the Void, and Ice in the North and Fire in the South, and the Great Waters. A universe created in a day and a night, or billions of years, or seven days, or a cycle of creations and destructions. The waters were made to recede to reveal the land, or the land was formed from the coils of a serpent, or half of a slain ocean goddess, or the flesh and bones and skull of a giant, or a broken egg. Or an island of curdled salt appeared when the sea was churned by a spear. Or the land was carried up to the surface of the waters by a water beetle, or a muskrat, or a turtle, or two water loons. However the world was made, it teemed with life; populated by beings who evolved from a single cell, or who were molded from clay or carved out of wood or found trapped in a clam shell. They wandered up from their underworld of seven caves, or fell through a hole in the sky, or they crawled out of the insect world that lies below. All of these stories, these beginnings, are true, and yet none of them are the absolute truth; they are simultaneous in spite of paradox. The world is a house built from contradictory blueprints, less a story than it is a conversation. But it is not a world without complications. Not without conflicts. Not without seams.

• • • •

One of those complications was a man named Jude Dubuisson, flesh and blood and divine all at once, who stared out at Jackson Square, at the broad white expanse of St. Louis Cathedral, at the plump, fluttering mass of pigeons, at the tidal ebb and flow of tourists on the cobblestones, and saw none of it. He was likewise deaf to his surroundings: the constant mutter of the crowd, the hooves clopping on pavement, and the hooting echo of the steamboat’s calliope coming from the river. His attention was fixed inward, on thoughts of the old life he’d done his best to forget. All those years of standing between the worlds of gods and men, of the living and the dead.

For his entire adult life, he’d straddled the seam between two worlds and brought trouble to both: a walking, breathing conflict with a fuck-you grin. That had been before the storm, though. Those memories belonged to a different man. In the six years since those fateful days in 2005, he’d tried to put it all behind him. Tried to ignore all the impossible things he knew. But the last few days, the past was like a storm cloud on the horizon, a rumble of thunder that refused to stay silent, a gloom that refused to disperse.

The past just refused to stay dead.

Jude was what the more liberal-minded in the city these days—those for whom the term “mixed race” sounded somehow offensive—would call “Creole,” and what older black folks referred to as “red-boned,” some indeterminate mix of white and African heritages along with whatever else had made it into the gumbo. All Jude knew was that he had light brown skin, a white mother, and a father he’d never met. The rest of the world always seemed more concerned about his ethnicity than he was.

He kept his hair shaved close to his scalp and a scruff of beard that was more stubble than style. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt despite the cloying wet shroud that clung to New Orleans in the summer, the heat that made any act an effort, even breathing. The damp shirt pressed tight against his skin, the sweat tickling down the small of his back. Jude reached up, absently, to wipe off his face with the handkerchief his mother had taught him a gentleman always carries, but stopped himself, pulled from his introspection by the self-conscious awareness of the leather gloves he had on. He tucked his hand back into his lap, out of sight.

Not that anyone paid him any attention. He’d been out on the corner right across from Muriel’s since early that morning, had set up folding chairs and his rickety-ass table, laid out a chalkboard sign, a cash box, and a battered paperback atlas the same as he did most days, but in all the hours he’d been in the Square, only a few people had bothered to ask what the sign meant. None sat down. His services, unlike the tarot card readers and the brass bands and the art dealers, weren’t part of the cliché of the Quarter, and thus flew under the average tourist’s radar.

But today the lack of clients suited his mood. He’d have found it hard to feign interest in anyone’s problems with the way his thoughts had been circling nonstop. Pacing back and forth, as tense and feckless as an expectant father. Or a criminal awaiting execution.

A young street performer—Timmy? Tommy? Jude could never remember—stopped in front of Jude’s table, casting a long shadow. Jude frowned at the intrusion into his thoughts, even as he appreciated the shade. The white kid’s face, streaked with the sweaty remnants of clown paint, was split by an unguarded grin. He wore a golf cap and a tweed vest with no shirt on underneath. Less than ten years separated the two men, maybe as little as five, but to Jude’s eyes he was just a boy.

Grown more used to silence than speech, Jude had to search for his voice before he could speak. “You need something?” he asked, the words scratchy.

“About to ask you the same thing,” the boy said, pulling off the cap and swiping sweat from his forehead. “Headed to the grocery ’round the corner.” He gestured with the limp hat in the store’s direction before slipping it back onto his head.

Jude shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” he said. He turned to go, then looked back. “You coming tomorrow night?” Jude shrugged and raised his eyebrows. The boy threw his hands into the air. “I only told you, like, twelve times already. My band finally got that gig? At the Circle Bar?”

“Oh, right,” Jude said. He imagined being crammed into a tight space with a crowd of strangers and lied to the kid. “Yeah, I’ll try to make it.”

The boy’s grin widened into a smile that took another five years off his age and made Jude feel like an older, more cynical version of himself. Tommy moved on to the next table, the sole of one of his shoes flapping, pitiful, on the street.

Jude sighed, inhaling the rich odor of the Quarter: stale beer and musky humanity and the moist, dark scent of the river. It was hard to live as he did, hidden in the seams between the life he had known and this new life he wore like a mask, but—because of those things he tried not to think about—Jude belonged there.

Or so he believed.

A short while later, Jude got his first and only customers of the day, a couple of out-of-towners. College kids, judging by the Greek letters on their T-shirts and the bright green plastic drink cups in their hands. She was a white girl who had spent hours in the sun darkening her skin, and he was vaguely West Asian, but spoke with a tap-water American accent. Lovers, Jude guessed, from the way the boy rested his hand on her shoulder, and the way the girl introduced the both of them—Mandy and Dave—like the conjunction made them a single unit. The girl seemed by far the more eager of the two. When she asked Jude what his sign meant, Dave looked toward the other side of the Square, as if searching for an escape.

“It means what it says,” Jude said. “If you’ve lost something, I can tell you where it is.”

“Like, anything?” Mandy asked, glancing at Dave to see if he was listening.

“Yeah,” Jude said, “like, anything.” She seemed not to notice the droll mockery in his voice, but Dave turned and frowned at her.

“It’s a scam,” Dave said.

“First try is free if you’re not satisfied,” Jude said. “Ten bucks if you are.”

Dave’s frown deepened, but Mandy lowered herself into one of the aluminum chairs across from Jude. “Come on, sweetie, let me at least try it. Mom’ll kill me if she finds out—” She turned a sly glance in Jude’s direction. “If she finds out I lost what I lost.” Dave made an incredulous sound in the back of his throat and checked the time on his phone, doing everything but tapping his foot to signal his impatience. His every gesture told Jude he’d been hustled before.

But Jude was no hustler, at least not today. He’d always had an affinity for lost things. Even as a child, he could point out that a friend had left a toy beneath a sofa cushion, could lead a neighbor to where her cat had stranded itself too high in a tree.

This magic was the one true gift Jude had ever gotten from the father he’d never known. As he aged, or with practice—Jude wasn’t sure which—this affinity strengthened, grew more nuanced. A brush of his fingertips against a hair left on a pillow and he knew the lost child’s name, knew that she was hungry and cold and alone, knew that she was locked in a basement in Ohio, even though she’d only vanished from her room a few days before.

The more complex the loss, though, the more cryptic his gift became. Sometimes deciphering the sensations and visions was impossible. Some things wanted to stay lost. But far more often than not, his magic worked. This power had lived at the core of him, became the foundation he’d built his life upon. He’d always been the man who could find things.

Then came the hurricane, and a rip at the seams.

The seam split between a government and its citizens when the levees that were built to protect . . . didn’t. It split between the people of New Orleans and their lives, the lucky ones cast out like dandelion seeds thrown by a fierce wind. The stitches that held together communities and families and homes strained in that wind. Some frayed, some tore. In the flood of lost things that followed, the space inside of Jude where his magic lived ripped open wide.

In the aftermath, Jude found his power had become a raw, unhealing wound. Something fundamental about his gift had changed, had turned on him. Before, he’d had to focus, to reach for the knowledge his magic could give him. After, he could barely hold it at bay. Like many after the storm, he’d done what he could to numb his senses to all the loss around him. Booze, sex, any number of bad decisions. It worked, but only for a while. His power was too much a part of him to be denied. Eventually, he’d figured out that if he didn’t touch anything or anyone—hence the gloves—and if he released a trickle of his magic every few days, he could manage, just barely, to stay sane. For six years he’d survived, though he couldn’t really call it living, not going back to his old life, unable to move on to anything new, each day nearly identical to the one before. He’d tucked himself quietly away in the seams, like a coin lost beneath the sofa cushions. Being nowhere and nothing, he’d decided, was better than feeling all that loss.

Jude slipped off his glove beneath the table and a rush of sensation flickered along his naked skin, like the pins and needles of returning circulation. He reached out and took the girl’s slender hand in his own, focusing on the single item she sought. If he had merely touched her, he would have seen and felt everything she’d lost in her young life. Even a seemingly happy and pampered girl like her would have lost enough to exhaust him.

“Your mother’s earrings are in your hotel room,” Jude said.

Dave let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Good guess, Sherlock,” he said. “Real big leap to see that we’re tourists. Do people really fall for this?”

Jude’s first instinct was to tell Dave just how far up his patronizing ass he could put his attitude, but he held his tongue for Mandy’s sake. She was a good kid. That wasn’t just a first impression; Jude knew she was, could feel it through her skin. “Not where you’re staying in New Orleans,” Jude said. He flipped through the atlas with his free hand, opening it to the Louisiana section, flipping to the map of Baton Rouge, and dropping his finger onto a street intersection without looking. “Were you here at any point in the last few days?” Mandy gasped and pulled her hand away. Jude fought the urge to smile. He’d phrased the last part as a question, but he’d known he was right. He knew more, the name of the hotel, the room number, that the two of them had snuck away from a church youth group-sponsored protest at the Capitol Building for a day of sin in the Crescent City, but he’d learned that if he got too specific, people went from intrigued to scared. Dave took a ten out of his wallet and sat down.

“The next one is twenty,” Jude said.

Fifteen minutes and fifty dollars later, Jude said something dubious and vague enough that Dave’s cynicism returned, and they left. Jude could have kept them there all night, parceling out the answers to the little mysteries of their little lives until their cash ran out, but the money meant nothing to him. This petty game with the tourists was all about the release valve for his gift.

He’d been so much more than this, once.

Later, as he started to pack up his belongings, he saw that Mandy had left her phone behind. It looked more like a child’s toy than a piece of technology: a pink flip phone covered in rhinestones. If only she knew someone who could find lost things, he thought, smiling for what felt like the first time in days. As soon as he picked it up, as if bidden by his touch, the phone jumped and buzzed. Jude snatched it open, startled. An incoming text from an unknown number.

Meet me for a drink in an hour, the message said. The usual place, very important. Have something for you. Then, as he read, the phone twitched with another message. It read, This is Regal.

Jude started to type a reply, but sighed and snapped it closed instead. Regal wouldn’t take no for an answer.

An hour to make it Uptown. He could get there easily if he had a car—or a driver’s license, for that matter—but he didn’t. He dismissed the idea of a cab, as well. If the streetcar didn’t get him there in time, Regal could wait. Or she wouldn’t, and that would be fine, too. It wasn’t like he actually wanted to see her.

On his way out of the Quarter, he dropped the fifty dollars he’d skimmed from Mandy and Dave into the upturned hat of three kids tap-dancing on the corner. He could tell himself that meeting Regal was only professional curiosity, that he was only going to find out what magic she’d used to find him through a stranger’s phone, but he knew the truth. What gnawed at him was the more basic question of her reaching out to him at all. What could be so important that she’d track him down? What could she have for him that she wouldn’t have given him years ago? Was this why the past had been churning around in his mind lately?

Of all the things that had been lost in this city, why had she bothered to find him?

• • • •

Walking into St. Joe’s bar was like descending into a cave and discovering a chapel. The shock of the colder air made Jude’s skin prickle and every hair stand on end. Dozens of crosses hung from the ceiling, not one of them resembling the next, one simple and carved out of wood, another an ornate twisting of wrought iron. The dusty scent of years of cigarette smoke and the sweet, green odor of fresh-cut mint leaves filled the tight space, coating the worn church pews and the high bar and the mirrors on the walls, dull in the dim light. Across the pool table in the back of the room, a dark hallway led past an ancient, churning ice machine and the toilets and out to a small patio. Speakers in high corners played a Rebirth song, sharp bursts of brass instruments at a frantic, exuberant beat. The whole front of the bar had been a plate-glass window once, but plywood covered it now. Boarded up since the storm.

Jude squinted against the sudden darkness, saw that he’d gotten there before Regal. The bar had only three other customers this early in the afternoon, a Vietnamese man playing a touchscreen game on the bar and a young, blond white woman talking to the scruffy Latino guy behind the counter. The bartender’s hands were busy chopping mint for the mojitos St. Joe’s was known for, but his eyes remained fixed on the girl, a slight smile on his thin lips. She stretched, her shirt pulling up and revealing the dimple of flesh where her lower back met the curve of her buttocks. Jude pushed down a sudden surge of lust. He looked away and leaned against the bar, trying to keep his distance from all of them.

The man playing the video game was middle-aged but prematurely toughened by years of smoking and hard drinking. He stared, vacant, tapping the screen and feeding it dollar bills and taking long drags off his cigarette without ever changing his expression. Jude’s fingertips tingled. Right beneath his sternum something sharp and insistent, like a fishhook piercing the core of him, yanked taut and yearned toward the man, toward his sense of loss. The man called himself Lee—the latter half of “Willy,” not Bruce—even though his parents had named him William, after his father. Lee hated William Sr. and wanted no connection to him. But he’d always felt like he’d lost something, in not having a father he could admire.

Jude cursed silently and clenched his hands into fists. Sometimes things leaked in even with the gloves, especially around strangers. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here. To hell with Regal and whatever she had for him. Just as Jude decided to leave, the bartender noticed his presence and slouched over, with a curt nod and a “Whatcha need?” Jude ordered an Abita and eased onto the stool, keeping his gloved hands out of sight below the counter.

Regal’s got until I finish this beer, he told himself, and then, like she’d timed it that way, the door opened and there she was, framed by the fading sunlight.

She’d cut her hair. What he remembered as an auburn silky drape down to her shoulders was now clipped short and spiky. The rest of her hadn’t changed, though. Her deep-set eyes remained that clear, molten brown, like honey. The grin that slanted across her full lips still straddled the line between amused and mocking. She was a small white woman, both short and petite, who moved across the room with the confident glide of someone twice her size and the grace of a woman who knew how to handle herself.

“Dubuisson,” she said. “It’s been too long.” Despite everything—the sleepless nights, his unease at being out in the world, this life colliding once again with his own, the tendrils of loss twisting and curling into the cracks in his resolve, despite it all—the sound of her voice made him smile. Regal Sloan. His partner and closest friend in a life he’d left behind. Or tried to.

“Hey, Queens,” he said, the old nickname slipping unexpectedly out of his mouth. She smirked and started to speak, but the bartender interrupted with Jude’s beer. Regal ordered one for herself, and they said nothing while they waited. When the bartender returned, Regal, still standing behind him, reached over Jude’s shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her, the brush of her breath against his neck. Jude forced himself not to flinch away from her invasion of his personal space, knowing it wasn’t true flirtation so much as an attempt to make him uncomfortable, to keep him off his game. She folded a napkin in half and traced a two and a zero across it with her fingertip. Regal pushed the napkin to the bartender, who scooped it up as payment without questioning it.

“Keep the change, boo,” she said.

Jude took a sip of his Abita, savoring the crisp sharpness on his tongue. Same old Regal, he thought. He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until she laughed.

“Way I remember it,” she said, “you taught me that particular trick.”

“Taught you all the tricks you know, rook.”

“Memory slipping in your old age?” She picked up both glasses. “Let’s talk in back.”

Jude dug a twenty out of his pocket and dropped it on the other side of the counter between a couple of bottles where the bartender would find it later, and then followed her, discomfort roiling in his gut like water about to boil. As he slid past the blonde at the other end of the bar, whose thumbs were now dancing across her cell phone, the bitter taste of blood filled his mouth. Great, he thought. Just great.

The next room seemed like a different bar, with patio tables spread across the bare concrete floor and bright paper lanterns strung above. The lanterns rustled in the breeze from the large box fan rattling in the corner, stirring the soupy air around more than providing any relief from the heat. Regal set Jude’s beer in front of him, slurping the foam off the top of her own. He wondered if she had seen his gloves yet and if the glass was safe to touch without them. He thought about taking one off under the table, unsure if he could do it without her noticing.

“So,” Regal said, after licking her lips, “you got your shit together, or you still hiding from the storm?”

Some would call Regal blunt or tactless. Some had harsher names for it. Once, a middle-aged hausfrau had called her “a gashmouthed cunt” in front of her two young daughters. Jude knew, though, how carefully Regal chose those barbs of hers. It was how she kept people back on their heels. That same housewife had been selling the virginal menstrual blood of her eldest to a voodoo woman.

Still, it hurt that she’d jabbed at Jude’s weak spot like that, like he was just another prick in the way of her doing the job. Made him a little angry, too. But mostly it proved that she had more on her mind than a drink with an old friend.

“That guy’s gonna catch hell when his till comes up twenty bucks short,” he said. “I only ever used that trick to fuck with the kind of assholes who have it coming. Broke-ass bartenders trying to make rent money don’t exactly qualify.” He worked at keeping his voice level. It wouldn’t help anything to lose control here. His temper was something else—or so Jude’s mother had always said—that he’d gotten from his absent father.

She cocked that same grin at him, only this time it seemed insulting. “You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”

“First,” Jude said, raising a finger as he counted, “I know the blonde out front will be dead sooner than not, sucked dry by the vampire that’s got her enthralled. Second, you’ve got a bit of magic hidden on you, a weapon by the feel of it, something sharp and nasty. Third? There’s a change coming, something that’s got even the boss man rattled. And fourth, you’re stalling. That’s what I know.”

She turned her head back the way they had come, squinting as if she could see through the wall that separated them. “Does it bother you?”

“What, the girl? Of course it does.”

She shook her head. “Actually, I was asking if it bothered you to be such a know-it-all prick all the time, but let’s talk about the girl. Bet you wanna go rescue her, don’t you? Gonna swoop in and save the day?” She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Not every woman is lost without her big, strong man, you know. That hero complex of yours is gonna get you in deep shit one day, bucko.”

“Thanks for the advice,” he said, taking a swallow of his beer. “Timing could be better, though.” This wasn’t the way he’d hoped this conversation was going to go. Regal seemed tense. Unsure, even. She mocked him for wanting to save the girl, but she hadn’t stopped staring in her direction, either.

“How did you know all of that?” she asked.

“Because whoever dear old dad was, I’m my father’s son,” he said. “Some things I just know.” Which was bullshit, of course. The taste-of-blood vampire warning was just a residual thing, an unintended side effect from a protection spell he’d done years ago. Everything else he’d said had been presumptions and educated guesswork, his tongue moving faster than his brain and hoping to get lucky. Regal knew a little about his father, though, so convincing her he knew a bunch of stuff he didn’t know—couldn’t know—wasn’t much of a gamble.

Tell someone you’re the bastard child of a god, and they’ll believe you’re capable of just about anything.

“So, quit with the foreplay,” Jude said. He leaned forward, the chair creaking under his weight. “Mourning sent you to talk me into coming back, didn’t he?”

“No.”

Jude raised an eyebrow. “So you just thought you’d look your old buddy Jude up after six years and knock back a few?”

“Okay, yes, Mourning sent me.” She bit her lip, uncertain. “But it’s not what you think.”

“Fuck Mourning.” Jude felt his control slipping, anger and magic threatening to wriggle free, to take shape as fire and storm. He shouldn’t have come. This was the last thing he needed.

“It’s not what you think,” she repeated. Regal stuck two fingers into her back pocket and took out an envelope sealed with red wax. The paper looked thick and old, like parchment. She glanced up, then her eyes darted away, unable to meet his. “You’re pissed, I get it. I didn’t want to get involved, but you know how it is. Mourning wants something, he doesn’t exactly ask, you know? But this message isn’t from Mourning. We were just hired to find you and deliver it.”

Jude wanted to say that he didn’t care. That he didn’t want any part in any of this, just wanted to go home and drink until he forgot all the impossible things he knew. Things that had been a part of that other life, like magicians who called things up out of the darkness to do their bidding, or hoodoo women who cast curses for a fee and then charged double for the cure, or monsters that walked the daylight pretending to be human and hunted in the night. Things that were only partly human, or not human at all. Things that even the gods had abandoned.

Instead of saying any of that, though, his curiosity won out. “That envelope isn’t ticking, is it?”

She laughed, but it was an unconvincing, desperate sound. She said nothing else, just held the message out to him, shaking it a little when he didn’t take it.

“Who sent it?” he asked.

“No idea. All I know is I’m supposed to give you this,” she said, sliding the parchment across the table, “and tell you that the favor’s being called in.”

Jude cursed under his breath. He owed a lot of debts, to more people than he’d ever be able to pay back. But only one of them would refer to his debt as a favor: Dodge Renaud, the fortune god of New Orleans. Sure enough, when he picked it up, the envelope was sealed with red wax impressed with an ornate R.

Fucking perfect, Jude thought. He started to take a sip of his beer and instead tilted it up, gulping, draining the glass, no longer concerned with whether she saw his gloves or not. He found, to his surprise, that his hands didn’t shake.

Six years. That was a decent span of time for normal human problems, hangovers and avoiding exes and pretending you were happy with your shitty pay at your shitty job. Six long years away from dancing to the whim of gods and all the nasty bullshit that came with it. For six years he’d stayed low, stayed quiet, tucked down in a seam of a life so boring, he’d convinced himself that he’d vanished entirely, that petty problems would be all he’d have to deal with for the rest of his life. He should have known better.

Six years went like the blink of an eye if you lived forever.

Copyright © 2018 by Bryan Camp. Excerpted from The City of Lost Fortunes by Bryan Camp. Published by permission of the author and John Joseph Adams Books (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bryan Camp is a graduate of the University of New Orleans MFA program and the Clarion West Writer’s Workshop. He is a fan of the Saints, mythology, and the Oxford comma. When he’s not translating ancient languages or restoring antique motorcycles, he spends his time making up lies about himself in author bios. His first novel, The City of Lost Fortunes, will be published by John Joseph Adams Books in April 2018. He lives in New Orleans with his wife and their three cats, one of whom is named after a superhero. He can be found at: bryancamp.com and on Twitter: @bryancamp.

Book Reviews: April 2018

Christie Yant | 1302 words

Ka: Dar Oakley in the Ruin of Ymr
John Crowley
Paperback / Ebook / Hardcover / Audio
ISBN: 978-1481495592
Saga Press, October 24, 2017, 464 pages

The Nebula Awards finalists have been announced, and it is a strong ballot this year. But as in every year, there’s always that one book that you loved that is notably and inexplicably absent. For me, this year that book is Ka: Dar Oakley in the Ruin of Ymr.

The first time I heard of Ka by John Crowley, it was from someone who had read it in manuscript form. This extremely well-read individual told me that it was among the best books they’d ever read. Ever.

That’s a lot to live up to. I read and loved Little, Big a few years ago—the book for which Crowley is perhaps best known—and greatly admired his voice. Crowley evokes a dream-like sense of magic that seeps into the reader’s pores, and when we look up from the page, the world looks a little bit different.

And so it is with Ka. Our narrator is a widower who has taken in a sick and dying crow, and in his loneliness has welcomed the crow to stay. Of course, this is no ordinary crow, but Dar Oakley, two thousand years old and very close to immortal. Over time Dar Oakley and the man learn to understand one another, and our narrator has taken on the task of documenting Dar Oakley’s life as he approaches the end of his own.

Dar Oakley is the first of his kind to enter the world of humans, which he calls Ymr and is distinct from the world of Crows. He hadn’t always had a name—no Crow did, when he was young. Before Dar Oakley befriended the shaman he calls Fox Cap, there was no need for names. He would be the first in that, and in many other things: thinking the world could be different than it is; discovering a place where no Crows live, farther from his family’s freehold than any Crow had ever travelled; entering the world of humans, and learning to speak with them; going to the Underworld, and returning from it (more than once); and stealing the secret of immortality.

We follow him from the Neolithic to the Medieval eras, and into modern (and possibly future) times, across oceans and continents, through the rise of civilizations and religions. In each time and place, Dar Oakley is a harbinger—or perhaps instigator—of change, both for the society of Crows and that of people.

Within the epic sweep of a tale that plays out over millennia and multiple planes of existence, Crowley charms us with the day-to-day life of a Crow, from hunting voles to building nests; the profound effects of the coming of spring; the social hierarchy of a crow’s extended family; navigation in a life that has no roads or paths (daywise, darkwise, and billwise being the cardinal directions—there is no word for “south” in the Crow canon).

The book is broken into three parts, one for each life he remembers having lived: “Dar Oakley in the Coming of Ymr,” in which he experiences a shift in perspective that allows him to see and become part of the world of humans, which no Crow had ever done; “Dar Oakley and the Saints,” in which he finds himself the only Crow on an island hermitage, populated by sea birds and monks; and “Dar Oakley in the New World,” where he encounters his mate from a previous life, still alive herself, having stolen (as Dar Oakley once did) the secret of immortality. In each, he finds a human counterpart to whom he tells his tale and shares his adventure.

Ka is a fable, a lullaby, a naturalist’s guide to crows, and a peek at a hidden world just beyond our senses. (If I were to compare it to another work, it would be The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro—who recently won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Just saying.) This is a book worth reading twice.

Blackfish City
Sam J. Miller
Paperback / Ebook / Hardcover / Audio
ISBN: 978-0062684820
Ecco, April 17, 2018, 336 pages

Award-winning author (and current Andre Norton Award finalist) Sam J. Miller’s star continues to rise with his latest offering, Blackfish City.

The floating city of Qaanaaq is home to climate refugees from all over the world. Over-crowded and in varying states of decay, the city continues to be run by advanced software that has taken the power of decision out of the hands of the people. Much of the population has fallen into poverty, and many have turned to crime for sheer survival, while a wealthy elite class—families of the city’s founders or “shareholders”—continues to enjoy a life of privilege. At the center of the city is the Cabinet, a place dreaded and feared—a refuge for the wealthy, a final quarantine and prison for the sick and poor. And now a new illness afflicts the city, a devastating sexually transmitted disease that gradually untethers its victims from reality until it finally kills them.

Underlying it all, an obsession for people of any class or station, is an anonymous broadcast called “City Without a Map.” Part atlas, part almanac, and part counselor, the broadcast seems to speak directly to the hearts and minds of the ill, impoverished, and oppressed as it doles out practical information and emotional support, narrated in pieces by unnamed residents who have no more idea of the work’s authorship than do the listeners.

When a woman arrives in a skiff accompanied by an orca and a polar bear, speculation and fear regarding her origins and intent become a focus at every level of this fraying society. There are rumors that she has slaughtered her way across the grid cities before she arrived in Qaanaaq. She comes to be known as the orcamancer, nano-bonded to her animal companion, and thought to be the last of her kind.

The orcamancer, the Cabinet, the breaks, and the broadcast all collide as the reader follows each character in pursuit of answers: Kaev, a beam fighter paid to throw fights, now coerced into an unwanted role as hired thug, who lives in a state of clouded confusion until he falls into the cold sea below at the end of every fight; Ankit, assistant to a politician, who wants nothing more than to heal her brother and have her mother released from the Cabinet; Fill, wealthy and connected, obsessed with discovering the identity of the Author; and Soq, an accomplished slideway messenger now in the employ of Qaanaaq’s premier crime boss, and who through a chance encounter may have acquired software that could upend the social order of Qaanaaq.

Blackfish City has all of the elements of a page-turner, with conspiracies and mysteries aplenty, and Miller’s juxtaposition of advanced technology and a decaying world is so rich you can almost smell the ozone and rust. Miller’s treatment of divided loyalties and lost and found families (no spoilers—you’ll just have to read the book) is as complicated and convincing as any real life has to offer.

Plus the polar bear. Seriously, the polar bear is pure gold.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christie Yant is a science fiction and fantasy writer, Associate Publisher for Lightspeed and Nightmare, and guest editor of Lightspeed’s Women Destroy Science Fiction special issue. Her fiction has appeared in anthologies and magazines including Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 2011 (Horton),  Armored, Analog Science Fiction & Fact, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, io9, Wired.com, and China’s Science Fiction World. Her work has received honorable mentions in Year’s Best Science Fiction (Dozois) and Best Horror of the Year (Datlow), and has been long-listed for StorySouth’s Million Writers Award. She lives on the central coast of California with two writers, an editor, and assorted four-legged nuisances. Follow her on Twitter @christieyant.

Media Review: April 2018

Carrie Vaughn and Christopher East | 3466 words

This month, the review team doubles up to get iconic. Carrie Vaughn takes a look at Downsizing, a film giving a new spin to one of SF’s most classic tropes: shrinking. Christopher East, on the other hand, gives us a review of Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams, the small screen’s newest take on the worlds of SF icon Philip K. Dick.

Downsizing: Tiny Capitalism Is Still Capitalism

Downsizing
Directed by Alexander Payne
Produced by Paramount Pictures, Ad Hominem Enterprises, Annapurna Pictures
December 22, 2017

This isn’t a brilliant film, but I can’t help thinking that it should have been. It’s ambitious, meaty, thoughtful science fiction, which there isn’t enough of in film, and somehow it doesn’t quite hold together.

The story: A scientist figures out how to shrink living organisms. What can such technology be used for? Why, solving global overpopulation and resource drain. Small people only use a small amount of food, water, etc. The planet is saved! Except not really, because capitalism gets a hold of the concept and markets it to middle America as a way to turn meager savings into an affluent lifestyle. $150,000 in the big world translates to 12 million in the contained, small communities that have sprung up. A matched set of diamond jewelry—conflict free!—can be had for $83. You can save the planet, and still live in a giant house and eat at Cheesecake Factory and go to pool parties with all your status-driven neighbors.

Paul and his wife Audrey work hard but aren’t getting anywhere. They dream of the big house and nice amenities, but have no way of getting there, until they decide to downsize. The problem: Audrey chickens out after Paul has already undergone the irreversible procedure. So now, unexpectedly divorced, he lives in Leisureland, a paradise of American suburban affluence that comes across just as excruciating as it sounds. It has three Cheesecake Factories, people!

Some aspects of the shrinking technology and its implications are well thought out—the process only works on organic tissue, so extensive dental work is required to remove all fillings, crowns, etc. and then replace them small. People with artificial joints or other permanent implants are disqualified from shrinking entirely. Paul meets a downsized globetrotter with his own yacht—how does he travel around the world? He certainly can’t sail in a toy-sized boat. The answer: He FedExes the boat ahead.

The film’s first act promises a conventional suburban comedy with sight gags and effects-laden pratfalls. But that setup falls away, and the rest of the film hammers the audience with social commentary. What you notice right away, of course, is the whole army of people who need to help small people be small. Someone needs to carry your traveling box to your high school reunion. (I kept worrying that one of those boxes was going to get dropped.) There are the small medical personal on the other side of the shrinking process, the small groundskeepers of those nice park areas. We didn’t see it, but I imagine there’s a factory somewhere of small people making small-scale clothes, furniture, and so on. And those small McMansions don’t clean themselves.

Paul meets Ngoc Lan Tran, a Vietnamese activist who was arrested in her home country and shrunk against her will. She escaped to America in a TV shipping box, was the only survivor of that harrowing passage, and lost her leg in the process. Now she cleans houses, and through her, Paul discovers that even Leisureland has a slum, a couple of crates outside the walled paradise where downsized people who’ve fallen through the cracks, along with the people who bus into the nice part of town to clean houses and such, live.

This ought to be the most planned of planned communities—literally no one can get there without going through a seriously involved medical procedure. Never before has there been a community like this where literally every single person should be accounted for and taken care of. And yet, somehow, the ubiquitous stratification of society has still taken place.

Turns out, reproducing the excesses of late capitalism at a small scale doesn’t actually solve any problems. This is what the film does well—it doesn’t go the route of easy comedy, and instead sets up a critique of consumer culture and how a technology-driven society goes about solving its problems.

For all the clarity of its message, the movie still feels off-balance.

What may be part of the film’s undoing is the expectation engendered by a whole history of movies and shows about people being shrunk. It’s a standard trope, from Land of the Giants to Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and even Ant-Man, and it’s invariably about the spectacle. Watching small people trying to navigate a world where dandelions are the size of trees, the curb is a cliff, and the family dog has become a ravening monster. Downsizing has none of this. Nobody gets washed down a drain, nobody has to figure out how to operate a giant phone. Main character Paul’s life is never in danger from his being five inches tall. Since downsized people live in scaled down communities, most of the movie has no special effects at all. This takes a familiar trope and does something completely different with it, and I wonder if that confused audiences. We keep waiting for the action and suspense to start, and they never do. So what is the movie about?

I’ve always really liked the concept of social engineering versus technological engineering. Technological engineering is about the scientific, mechanical, step-by-step issues involved in solving various problems humanity confronts. Social engineering is about changing the customs and mores that maybe caused some of those problems in the first place. Downsizing is about both of these and the differences between them, and I’ve never seen that before.

It’s a pet peeve of mine: the premise in a lot of science fiction that moving the whole of humanity off planet is somehow an easier solution for saving everyone from environmental catastrophe than, you know, convincing us to move away from a fossil-fuel-based economy. I’m suspicious of stories in which some massive technological fix, rather than an examination of the behavior behind the problem, solves everything. Because if we have the technology to build vast space colonies, we damn well have the know-how to heal the planet. What these fictions can’t seem to imagine is us developing the will to do so.

The scientist behind the downsizing technology conceived it as a way to conserve resources and solve overpopulation. But it’s not enough. When Paul meets him, Dr. Asbjörnsen despairs: Climate change is already past the tipping point, humanity is doomed. So he has a new outrageous technological solution: a self-contained ark deep underground where a community of small people can live for the next few thousand years until Earth is habitable again. This seems entirely reasonable to Paul. Right up until it doesn’t. The vast technological solution ignores the small, individual problems right in front of him, that he can fix right now.

We already have what we need to fix the problems around us, if we could only decide to do so. But that’s not very much fun. The big technological fix is more exciting. Moreover, the film explicitly states that the people signing up for Leisureland aren’t doing it to help save the planet—they’re doing it because they want the affluent lifestyle and can’t afford it any other way. Paul states that he wants to join the underground commune to be part of something bigger and more meaningful than himself—it feels like fate to him. But Ngoc Lan confronts him with reality: There are easier and more useful ways to help people, if that’s what he really wants to do. The movie ends with him helping her deliver meals to the elderly and infirm at Leisureland’s slum.

There’s a fine line—a story needs a main character to follow, so we can get an emotional anchor to the story as well as the meaning behind it. But that can lead to feeling like all this has happened so our guy can have a revelation. It’s not about the world, it’s about him, or is it? And this I think may be the other spot where the movie falls down. Most of the characters walk a line between being clichés, saying something about those clichés, and also being well-developed characters. Rather than maintaining a balance between all these things, though, the story wobbles. It’s a comedy, it’s serious, it’s both, it’s neither. It’s hard finding our footing as viewers.

Paul isn’t particularly likeable, and he doesn’t have a whole lot of agency. He decides to go small because an old high school friend did it; he goes to the original small colony in Norway because his weird aging Eurotrash neighbor takes him along. It’s Ngoc Lan who begs to go, and who was actually invited by the colony. Paul wants to join the underground colony because Dr. Asbjörnsen said it was a good idea. Paul’s arc isn’t about becoming a better or more enlightened person, but about finding the right person to influence him to his best life—Ngoc Lan.

Ngoc Lan starts as a stereotype—a shrill, bossy, Asian house cleaner. But what was maybe the expected portrayal of the heroic oppressed foreign activist is also a stereotype—Paul even asks her, why isn’t she off on a lecture tour or writing books? Well, she’s too busy earning money and taking care of her neighbors. She’s an uncomfortable character, and she’s supposed to be. She certainly isn’t supposed to be the love interest opposite Matt Damon in a big Hollywood movie. But she is, and actress Hong Chau received a Golden Globe nomination for Best Supporting Actress for the role.

These stereotype-but-not-quite characters are another aspect of how this film juggles a lot of balls, in terms of story, message, and visualization. It aims very high, and if it doesn’t hit the mark, I have to give it a lot of credit for trying.

Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams (Season 1)
Channel 4, Sony Pictures Television
January 2018

Philip K. Dick was a singular, prodigious talent in science fiction, but over the years, as his body of work has spawned something of an unlikely media empire, I’ve often wondered if the author would be baffled by Hollywood’s passion for adapting his stuff. Since the release of Blade Runner—itself, for all its iconic brilliance, not a particularly Dickian vision—the entertainment industry has been mining his oeuvre in search of the next breakout skiffy premise. But in doing so, they’ve rarely if ever captured Dick’s quirky tone or elusive, unsettling ethos.

Enter Amazon, which has already gone to the well for the polished—but, again, not particularly Dickian—The Man in the High Castle. Now they’ve jumped into the fray with Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams, Peak TV’s latest SF anthology series to appear in the wake of the genre-reviving Black Mirror. Using Dick’s prolific output as the genesis for several standalone hours, it makes for a very welcome addition to the science fiction TV landscape.

Initially, Electric Dreams, which aired in the United Kingdom on Channel 4 before joining Amazon’s arsenal, presents like a cagey Black Mirror clone. Based on how Amazon reordered the episodes, one has to wonder if this was a deliberate counter-attack on Netflix’s critical darling; indeed, the first two episodes in Amazon’s queue wouldn’t have looked out of place on Black Mirror, presenting grim visions of the future that explore the nightmarish ramifications of technology. To be fair, though, even in these hours the show begins to set itself apart tonally. “Real Life,” scripted by Ronald D. Moore of Battlestar Galactica fame, won’t shock seasoned SF readers with how it deploys its virtual reality premise, but it’s a professional, successful segment. Anna Paquin stars as Sarah, a police detective struggling with survivor’s guilt in the wake of an on-the-job tragedy. At the urging of her girlfriend, she utilizes a VR headset to take a virtual vacation—which puts her so convincingly into the life of the troubled George (Terrence Howard), a brilliant video game designer, that she loses the ability to tell which person she/he truly is. Visually, “Real Life” owes more to Ridley Scott than Dick, and its script has some unfortunate infodumpy passages, but it’s a nifty structural puzzle that leverages one of the author’s classic themes—what is real?—to thought-provoking effect. Similarly clever is “Autofac,” which boasts a technological dystopia that could easily have come from Charlie Brooker—but no, it’s the product of the Cold War nuclear paranoia that fueled Dick’s early work. In the wake of a nuclear holocaust, human survivors—led by the brilliant Emily (Juno Temple)—work to combat the self-replicating drones and machines of a megafactory that relentlessly despoils the landscape. Emily and her team shoot down a drone and hatch a plan to infiltrate and destroy the autofac by manipulating the protocols of a humanoid customer service robot (Janelle Monáe). “Autofac” possesses glimpses of Dick’s sensibility, but despite its mid-twentieth-century roots, it’s very much informed by the present, a scornful critique of runaway capitalism. Temple delivers a compelling lead performance, while Monáe pulls off an effective “uncanny valley” replicant. (Ironic that this one should appear on Amazon, the one company on the planet that may be poised to become an actual autofac . . .)

If these opening episodes seem to mimic a competitor, the next few serve to set the show apart, illustrating Electric Dreams’ true advantage over Black Mirror: more diversity of tone and subject matter. Unfortunately, “Human Is” wastes the amazing Bryan Cranston in an underwhelming tale of retro pulp science fiction about a space captain sent on a mission to harvest natural resources from an alien planet. Upon his return, his wife (Essie Davis), whose relationship with him is contentious, starts to see him in an unsettling new light. The episode’s depiction of environmental dystopia is visually accomplished, but ultimately the episode is slow-moving, dull, and unsurprising. By comparison, “Crazy Diamond” is a slight step up, and one of the few hours that manages to capture Dick’s quirky, absurd sense of humor. It features Steve Buscemi, and I have a hard time imagining a more perfect actor to play the prototypical PKD protagonist. He stars as a scientist who works in a factory that designs artificial humanoids; he starts to see the troubling inhumanity of his work when one of the artificial beings he helped create (Sidse Babbett Knudsen) comes to him for help, roping him into black market intrigue. While its plot is less than satisfying, “Crazy Diamond” is mesmerizingly weird and visually stunning. It conjures something of Dick’s vision, an erratic but engaging blend of throwback skiffy concepts and contemporary futurism.

“The Hood Maker” continues in a retro vein, leaning even more heavily into the Blade Runner visual style, but it feels more worthy of extended discussion as an effective genre metaphor. This grim, dystopian noir stars Holliday Grainger as Honor, a police officer who is also a telepath. On her first case, Honor is paired with a non-telepath detective named Ross (Richard Madden) to track down a criminal who is making and distributing telepathy-proof hoods. “The Hood Maker” succeeds rather interestingly as an evocation of the 1950s that spawned it, the 1980s that influenced it, and the 2010s that ultimately produced it. Its old-school SF ideas and visuals also feel quite relevant and effective, both as a commentary on police-state assaults on personal privacy and an allegory for humanity’s destructive, othering tribalism. Grainger and Madden are both capable and charismatic, and the episode possesses a shape both structurally and thematically satisfying.

Alas, the season hits some doldrums, starting with “Safe and Sound,” perhaps the single most frustrating episode of the series. In this one Foster Lee (Annalise Basso) journeys with her politician mother (Maura Tierney) to the sophisticated, over-regulated future city from their humble roots in a “bubble” community in the west. In a school full of kids who are technologically linked to the citywide network, Foster feels like an outcast—until she scores her own “dex,” which cedes all her personal information to the city. The slick, futuristic dystopia of “Safe and Sound” builds confidently, but the plot fails the premise when it reaches the ending, wherein a potentially powerful ambiguity is blown apart by clumsy over-explication. It’s followed by the underwhelming “The Father Thing,” a pastoral alien invasion tale in which a suburban kid (Jack Gore) senses something amiss with his dad (Greg Kinnear) in the wake of a meteor shower. Kinnear’s American everyman charms are a great fit with the role, and there are some unsettling effects, but overall this one falls flat, its blend of Invasion of the Body Snatchers plot and Stranger Things style making it feel dated, derivative, and disappointing. Rounding out this rough patch is “Impossible Planet,” a sleepy tale of space tourism pilots (Jack Reynor and Benedict Wong) who con an old woman (Geraldine Chaplin) who wants to return to the long-destroyed planet Earth. Surreal and visually lush, “Impossible Planet” is a stretched expansion of a simple conceit, and while it deploys impressive eyeball kicks, it utterly lacks narrative energy.

Fortunately, the final two outings restore the show’s luster. The jewel in the season’s crown is “The Commuter,” a thoughtful, touching meditation on paths not taken. A train station employee named Ed (Timothy Spall) becomes obsessed with a mysterious traveler (Tuppence Middleton) who requests tickets to a town that doesn’t exist. The dark turns of fate that inform Ed’s sad life lead him to investigate further, and ultimately travel to the dreamlike town of Macon Heights, a community that only exists in an idealized alternate timeline. The idea is familiar—perhaps Rod Serling stole it from Dick for his famous Twilight Zone episode “A Stop at Willoughby,” to which it bears a certain resemblance. But this is a more mature and resonant take on the idea, a beautifully executed metaphor for the dangers of succumbing to the lure of regretful fantasizing. Spall’s thoroughly endearing performance and an eerie, elegiac atmosphere contribute greatly to the success of the hour, which for me was easily the season’s most satisfying. Finally, rounding out the season is “Kill All Others,” an episode of blunt but powerful political commentary. In the future meganation of “MexUSCan,” a run-of-the-mill factory worker named Philbert Noyce (Mel Rodriguez) leads a complacent, simple existence, until he hears what appears to be a shocking, subliminal message in the speech of the nation’s one-party Candidate (Vera Farmiga): that in order to succeed, the nation’s citizens must “kill all others.” Detailed, unnerving world-building and a nuanced, sympathetic performance from Rodriguez are the primary outward assets of “Kill All Others,” but the true power comes through a scathing critique of toxic American notions of consumerism, patriotism, and cultural homogoneity that, if anything, are more relevant now than they were in Dick’s original story.

Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams’ first season is uneven, with a low point for every high one. But by and large, I consider it a successful, ambitious anthology show, well worth watching. The production values and acting talent are first-rate, and even the weaker episodes are thoughtful, polished, and eye-catching. While none of the individual episodes perfectly encapsulate the inimitable flavor of Dick’s written work, together they explore—in a refreshingly varied way—a wide array of the author’s many themes and passions. Taken as a whole, in fact, these ten episodes may make a better case for the longevity of Dick’s lingering influence on the field than all of the previous adaptations combined. His material certainly lends itself to vast and varied interpretation, and there’s more than enough of it to fuel more episodes—which I would definitely look forward to with enthusiasm.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Carrie Vaughn is the bestselling author of the Kitty Norville series, as well as the superhero novels Dreams of the Golden Age and After the Golden Age, the young adult novels Voices of Dragons and Steel, and the fantasy novel Discord’s Apple. Her latest books are Bannerless, Martians Abroad, and Amaryllis and Other Stories. Her Hugo Award-nominated short fiction has appeared in many magazines and anthologies, from Lightspeed to Tor.com, as well as in George R.R. Martin’s Wild Cards series. She lives in Boulder, Colorado. Learn more at carrievaughn.com.

Christopher East is a writer, editor, reviewer, and avid consumer of science fiction, fantasy, and spy fiction. His stories have been published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Cosmos, Interzone, Talebones, The Third Alternative, and a number of other speculative fiction publications. He’s attended the Clarion and Taos Toolbox writing workshops, and served for several years as the fiction editor for the futurism, science, and technology blog Futurismic. He blogs extensively about writing, fiction, film, television, music, comics, and more at www.christopher-east.com. Currently he lives in Portland, Oregon, where he works for an occupational and environmental health and safety consultancy.

Interview: Angus McIntyre

Christian A. Coleman | 3312 words

Angus McIntyre was born in London and lived in Edinburgh, Milan, Brussels, and Paris before eventually finding his way to New York, where he now lives and works. A graduate of the 2013 Clarion Writers’ Workshop, his short fiction has been published in numerous anthologies and on Boing Boing. His background in computational and evolutionary linguistics and in artificial intelligence has given him a healthy respect for positive feedback loops and a certain curiosity about what it might be like to live in a universe filled with intelligent machines. His hobbies include travel and photography. Visit his website at angus.pw  or follow @angusm on Twitter for news about his fiction and other projects.

First things first: Congratulations on your debut! What’s it like to have The Warrior Within out there in the world after having had short stories published in several venues and anthologies?

Thank you. It’s exciting (also, terrifying). It’s only a novella, but it still feels like much more of a “thing” than a short story.

The Warrior Within is a space opera adventure about Karsman, a man with several people living in his head, who has to protect his small town on a backwater planet from off-world commandoes. How did the story come together for you? Did premise, character, or setting come first, or was it a combination of all three?

It came together in bits and pieces. I didn’t start with the whole thing mapped out in my head from start to finish. It was more like a snowball, with ideas gradually piling up into some kind of semi-coherent whole.

Setting was definitely first. The image of the Road—a single road that runs all the way around the equator of the planet—was my starting point. The original inspiration was a line from a song, “À tout moment la rue” by the French band Eiffel, but the exact path from that line to the idea of the Road was pretty random, even by my standards.

The core of the premise came next. It’s been said (possibly by John Gardner, possibly by someone else) that there are only two plots in literature: “someone goes on a journey” and “a stranger comes to town.” I went with the second, so immediately I had to ask myself who was coming to town, why they were there, what kind of town it was, and who lived in it. Once I knew the answers to those questions, I was on my way.

Character was the part that probably evolved the most during the writing. Finding Karsman’s character and his voice—or voices—was a process of continual discovery. And the main antagonist, whose character I thought I had set in stone, underwent some subtle but significant changes between the first and second drafts.

Let’s talk about the setting. Karsman is the unofficial mayor of a strip-town located on a planet with a pretty unforgiving desert climate. Plus, the sun never sets. I’m curious about the research you did to build this fascinating world.

It’s not stated specifically anywhere in the book, but the world is an example of a tidally locked planet, in which one face is always turned towards its primary—the star that it orbits. The star is a K-class dwarf, a bit duller and cooler than our own, and the planet orbits closer to it than Earth does to the Sun. This is probably a very common configuration; there are a great many M- and K-class (red and orange) dwarf stars in the universe, many probably have planets, and the so-called “habitable zone” around the star—the zone in which you can find liquid water—is close enough that any planets in the zone might easily end up tidally locked.

Obviously, that makes for big temperature extremes: The face turned to the star gets hot; the side in permanent shadow is very cold. You might have a more temperate zone at the equator—right where I built my Road—but it’s all pretty marginal.

The research I did was focused on finding whether parts of such a planet could really be habitable. It turns out that they might be. The key is atmospheric mixing: If your planet has an atmosphere, atmospheric circulation can smooth things out so that the extremes aren’t quite so extreme, and life has a chance.

Once I’d learned that, I didn’t dig too much deeper. I was always afraid I might find out that what I wanted wasn’t possible after all. So I didn’t actually try to model it or do a deep dive into the relevant literature. I just wanted to know that it was approximately plausible. In any case, as becomes obvious early on in the story, this is a planet that’s been subject to some fairly major engineering. If any astrophysicist says “Yes, but . . .”, I intend to wave my hands and say that the aliens did it.

The tidally locked planet is run by an ambivalent religious autocracy, the Muljaddy, which Karsman calls a benign dictatorship. How did you come up with this sect?

The same song that inspired the idea of the Road gave me the idea of a single family that controlled it and everyone living on it. Marx’s line about religion being the opiate of the people suggested their means of control. Suffice to say—I don’t think I’m giving too much away here—the Muljaddy are not true believers. Religion is just a tool they use to maintain order.

The deities named in the story, incidentally, are cherry-picked from the Hittite pantheon, which should be another clue that this is an invented religion.

As the story progresses, we find out that the cities on the planet are a network of life support systems for artificial minds called Intelligences. How did you come up with this part of the worldbuilding?

Warrior is part of an extended future history that I’m working on, which is heavily concerned with post-humans and artificial intelligences. One of the possible solutions that I envisage to the challenge of creating a functional super-intelligence is to build a composite group mind—not a monolithic single entity, but a kind of colonial organism. We have an example of such a super-intelligence: The collective power of the human race to figure stuff out and get things done far exceeds the intellect of any single individual. So we know that that particular model—lots of not-so-brilliant minds working together—definitely works.

Speaking of post-humanism, we find out that Karsman, in fact, is post-human because of the multiple people, called personas, installed in his head. Do you think post-humanism will erase human identity or take humanity to a level of evolution that we have yet to understand?

Erasure of identity is a possible outcome, but it might be the one I think is least likely. Post-humans may be strange to us (and vice-versa), but I believe post-human societies and post-humans as individuals will still have many recognizable human features. Human nature is a very tough weed: hard to eliminate, even when you try to pull it up by the roots. I actually wrote a story, “Justice and Shadow,” which was about love in a post-human society. My protagonists are genetically-specialized eusocial neuter females, so love for them is closer to agape—unconditional, non-physical love—than eros. But it’s still recognizable as love.

Of course, one of the least attractive features of human nature is our willingness to say, “Those other people aren’t human like us” (and therefore it’s okay for us to enslave them/take their land/bomb them/deport them/rape them/etc.). Writing about post-humans can be a way to talk about that, because this failure of empathy, this failure to mutually recognize other people as properly human, is likely to bedevil relations between humans as we are now and our increasingly strange descendants.

As a philosophy and a movement, post-humanism says people can and should become post-human en masse rather than selecting only a few for the privilege. But in Warrior, Karsman and the off-world commandoes have clearly been singled out from countless others to be biohacked and upgraded to Human 2.0 status (or Human 2.0.5 depending on your operating system). Do you see post-humanism coming up against our inevitable social hierarchies?

Definitely. But that can work various ways. Post-human enhancements might reinforce your status as a member of the ruling class—like the Muljaddy in Warrior. But they might simply make you a better servant—like Karsman, or the soldiers. If you assume that social hierarchies are an inevitable recurrent feature of human societies, then those at the top of the tree will have an interest in tightly controlling who gets access to any beneficial modifications and on what terms. When post-humanist good intentions come up against the realities of power and privilege, something has to give.

Just to backtrack a bit, you mentioned that Warrior is part of an extended future history that’s also heavily concerned with artificial intelligence. Your bio says you have a background in computational and evolutional linguistics and in artificial intelligence. Tell us about how you got into these fields.

I was interested in computers from a fairly early age—encouraged by my father, who recognized far earlier than many that computers were about to become a vital part of everyone’s life. The University of Edinburgh, where I went to college, was one of the first universities to offer artificial intelligence at undergraduate level, as a joint degree with linguistics. That sounded pretty interesting to me, so that’s what I did.

My work in evolutionary linguistics—studying the origins of language using evolutionary models—came about because I’d been lucky enough to work with a brilliant Belgian computer scientist, Professor Luc Steels. Luc’s a scientist-artist in the grand tradition, very intellectually curious and creative. When he invited me to join him to work on evolutionary linguistics at Sony Computer Science Laboratory in Paris, I jumped at the chance. It was a great experience, and I ended up learning a lot about evolution and dynamical systems.

What aspects of your expertise in AI made it into the novella?

More than anything else, my hard-won skepticism about the promises of AI practitioners. My college courses focused on what’s called the symbolic approach to AI, an approach that has since almost entirely failed to pan out. This left me feeling a bit like a skilled horse-drawn-buggy designer in the age of the motorcar. That experience does mean, however, that I see the path to Strong AI—artificial intelligence that equals or exceeds human performance in all aspects of life—as much messier and more complicated than some people do. My assumption that it’s not all easy and inevitable, that artificial intelligences are not going to be these perfect, God-like entities, but flawed, chaotic, and unpredictable, guides a lot of my universe-building.

Elon Musk and Stephen Hawking have said that AI will spell our doom—and not, say, runaway capitalism or climate change. What’s your take on their AI-pocalypse?

They may be right in the long term, but I believe it’s further away than they think. The idea of the runaway Singularity, where machines just get smarter and smarter on increasingly short timescales, seems to depend on the idea that artificial intelligences will be able to essentially design themselves; that they’ll be able to peek at their own code and make it faster and better until they achieve near-omniscience.

I don’t think it’s that easy. Incompleteness problems—the inherent inability of any formal system to fully describe itself—mean that the path to intelligence is likely to be evolutionary and bottom-up. Evolution’s incredibly powerful; we’re an intelligence designed by evolution, after all. But the human brain is hack piled upon hack. It’s not neat and organized; it’s not susceptible to easy analysis and improvement. I think AIs will be the same. Those promised super-intelligences will come with all these weird quirks and blind spots built in, just like us. They’ll stumble down evolutionary blind alleys and come to unexpected dead ends. What they have going for them is much shorter cycle times and the fact that they’re not just three pounds of meaty goop in a bone box. But I still don’t think the path to the Singularity is anywhere near as fast and smooth as Musk or Hawking might seem to suggest.

If the day finally comes, will humanity survive? We might. We may live on as rats in the walls while our super-genius children go on to conquer the universe. Or, to paraphrase Marvin Minsky, perhaps they’ll keep us on as pets.

Incidentally, my impression is that Musk and Hawking are focused on Strong AI. But we’re now entering an age of Weak AI, in which we have machines that can perform very specific “intelligent” activities at more-than-human levels of competence. They may not be generalists, but they’re terrifyingly efficient specialists. That’s going to have some profound effects, both good and bad, on who we are and how we live. Maybe a combination of human cussedness and hyper-efficient machinery will doom us all long before HAL 9000 and Skynet can do the job.

Before The Warrior Within, you’ve had other space opera short stories published: “Blind Perseus” and “Justice and Shadow.” What attracts you to the genre?

Space opera’s fun. You can write a good, gripping adventure story. But there’s room for much more than just action—you can pack in politics and sociology, you can draw ideas from history and hard science, you can write about the relationship between people and technology. And nothing about the conventions of space opera prevents you from writing character-driven narratives, which, as any good writer knows, is what the reader is really there for.

I read a lot of space opera in my teens: Brian Stableford’s Hooded Swan series, Larry Niven’s Known Space universe, Poul Anderson’s Flandry works, Cordwainer Smith’s Instrumentality of Mankind stories, and Frank Herbert’s Dune. I was also raised on Blake’s 7, a BBC SF series that can best be described as a kind of evil Star Trek where everyone’s crooked, cynical, and self-serving (and those are the good guys). That last one probably shaped my worldview more than I might want to admit.

When I came back to SFF after a decades-long hiatus, I found a whole new crop of authors writing space opera—Tobias Buckell, Kameron Hurley, Karl Schroeder, Ann Leckie, Peter Watts, Lois McMaster Bujold. They rebooted the space opera part of my brain all over again.

In addition to space opera, you write in other subgenres of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Who are some of the writers that got you interested in these genres and what drew you to them?

In fantasy, I read many of the classics: Tolkien and Robert E. Howard, inevitably, but also Le Guin’s Earthsea, E.R. Eddison, Lord Dunsany, and probably others. Now, there’s a crop of new voices to choose from as well: N.K. Jemisin and Bradley Beaulieu are two who I think of as outstanding worldbuilders (and great writers in general). Moving further from classic heroic fantasy, China Miéville and Richard Kadrey have been big inspirations. What drew me to them all is, I suppose, the same thing that everyone looks for in fantasy: the promise of a vivid secondary world and a good story well told. But sometimes you come for the elves and the dragons and stay for the prose style. Fantasy writers often feel free to inject more lyricism into their writing than science fiction writers (Cordwainer Smith would be an honorable exception). There’s a fine line between beautiful prose and pastiche, but the writers who manage to stay on the right side of that line can be very enjoyable to read.

I don’t think of myself as much of a horror writer or a reader; I’m not very well read in that genre, and I don’t feel that I really know yet what makes a good horror story. Both of the horror stories I’ve sold to date were influenced by the works of everybody’s favorite racist, Howard Phillips Lovecraft. And while HPL is not entirely without merit, I don’t want to tell people, “Read Lovecraft.” I’d rather say, “Read someone who isn’t Lovecraft,” but I haven’t read enough by any one author to feel confident recommending them or claiming them as an influence. M.R. James might be the one who interests me most, but ghost stories and modern horror aren’t quite the same thing.

Who are some influential authors that got you interested in writing overall?

I love writers who play with structure and style: Georges Perec, Raymond Queneau, Jorge Luis Borges, Alasdair Gray, Italo Calvino, Russell Hoban. I’m also a sucker for the kind of hyper-realistic examinations of ordinary life that you find in writers like Émile Zola, Patrick White, John Steinbeck, or Naguib Mahfouz. Then there are the not-quite-genre writers: Angela Carter, Mervyn Peake, John Crowley; travel writers turned novelists like Bruce Chatwin or Peter Matthiessen; anarchic underdog humorists like Stefano Benni or Daniel Pennac. The list goes on.

You graduated from the Clarion Writers Workshop. How has your experience there helped to shape your writing?

Clarion was huge for me. I was suddenly plunged into a situation where I had seven amazingly wise and gifted teachers, and seventeen incredibly smart, witty and talented fellow students—you may blush, Coleman—and nothing to do except write and think about writing. Seeing in detail how other people approached storytelling was hugely helpful in understanding how to plan my own. But most of all, Clarion showed me that I urgently needed to step up my game. It was a “Holy shit, I have to do better” moment. I’m still working on that part.

What’s coming up next for you? Are there new writing projects you can tell us about?

I hesitate slightly to talk about this stuff. I mean, I could, because I have an insanely ambitious plan to fill out my future universe with another, oh, fourteen or fifteen full-length novels. But most exist only as outlines and it seems to me that until you have at least two hundred printed pages covered with coffee stains and scribbled revision notes in blue ballpoint, it’s not a real thing. Talk is cheap; whisky costs money.

That said, I’m currently working on a novel which I hope will be the first of a trilogy, and which will form part of the backstory that eventually leads to The Warrior Within. I’ve also outlined parts of a novel or cycle of novels more directly related to Warrior. That one is actually centered on one of the characters from the novella—but not, perhaps, the one you might expect.

In the meantime, I’m still writing short stories. I have some new ones coming out in the months ahead. Some of my short stories are set in the same universe as Warrior: If the editors smile on me, you may be seeing some of those, too.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Christian A. Coleman is a 2013 graduate of the Clarion Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers’ Workshop. He lives and writes in the Boston area. He tweets at @coleman_II.

Author Spotlight: Will McIntosh

Sandra Odell | 621 words

“What is Eve?” is an intriguing, engaging story that kept me going until the last word. Tell us something that inspired this tale.

 So glad you enjoyed it! I found middle school to be one of the most awful experiences of my life, so I guess it’s not surprising that I eventually got around to exploring middle school in a story. The SF aspect of the story was something that had been sitting in my idea file for a while, but I couldn’t figure out how to turn it into a story. Lately I’ve written a few young adult and middle grade books, and that felt like the right setting.

You struck a perfect note with Ben’s reaction to Eve and, in many ways, her reaction to the class as a whole. As adults, we often forget much of what it was like to be a young teenager trying to find our way in the world. What do you feel was the hardest part to write when it came to capturing Ben and the other characters in this story?

 It’s always a challenge to capture the voice of younger characters, both inner dialogue and spoken. I cringe when I read fictional kids’ and teens’ thoughts that are simple and straightforward, because my experience is that kids don’t have simple thoughts, and they don’t speak simple sentences. They think differently, often from a more emotional place. Capturing that is a challenge.

This is a story of communication, reaching out, establishing boundaries, knowing when to make an effort, when to step back, when and how to take chances. This also establishes multiple levels of conflict in the story, inner and interpersonal. How do you balance negotiating such conflicts so that they work together to move the story forward rather than one overpowering the other?

 Often through multiple drafts. My first drafts are usually thin on character and internal conflict, heavy on plot and interpersonal/external conflict. Then I go back (often after getting feedback from a writing friend) and try to tie that external conflict to the character’s personal and inner struggles. The inner stuff is harder for me, and requires more digging.

Ben, Eve, and the others must also face the twin realizations that they are responsible for the safety of Earth and that they cannot trust the adults (most notably Colonel Winn) to do the job correctly. Taking such attitudes into the real world, what are some ways you feel adults could encourage children and teens to build a better future and save the world?

 I think adults can point to the world we’re currently living in and say, “See how we’ve done things? Don’t do what we’ve done. You can do better.” I wrote a book called Soft Apocalypse about a decade ago, where civilization is sliding into collapse and no one seems to realize it. Each year that sentiment feels a bit more like nonfiction to me.

You are known for both your novels and short stories. Are there any writing projects you’d like to tackle in the coming year?

 I’m always working on something! This year I’m hoping to contribute to a new dystopian triptych edited by John Joseph Adams and Hugh Howey. I’m also working on a new near-future young adult novel that is gentle and uplifting, and a thriller with absolutely no speculative content whatsoever. It’s probably not wise of me to be all over the place in terms of genre, but I love mixing it up.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Sandra Odell is a 47-year old, happily married mother of two, an avid reader, compulsive writer, and rabid chocoholic. Her work has appeared in such venues as Jim Baen’s UNIVERSE, Daily Science Fiction, Crosssed Genres, Pseudopod, and The Drabblecast. She is hard at work plotting her second novel or world domination. Whichever comes first.

Author Spotlight: Adam Troy-Castro

Jude Griffin | 485 words

How did this story come about?

 The same way most stories come about: It occurred to me that this premise could make a story and I somehow managed to keep my enthusiasm up until typing, “The End.” Sorry to be flip, but that’s about as much as I have to say on this one.

The ending was delightfully unexpected, but it was a hard re-entry into reality. What is your hope for readers when they finish a story of yours?

 My ambitions for different stories depend on the story, from, “Okay, that was mildly diverting,” to “This will bother me for a long time.” My ambitions for this one are much closer to the latter than the former.

Is there anything else you’d like readers to know about “A Place Without Portals”?

 This one’s based on a feeling that I sometimes get about fantasy: that sometimes it’s an escape in all the wrong ways. Please don’t think I’m saying I’m above it. I wrote a six-volume series of middle-grade portal fantasy. But every once in a while, the nagging question comes: Are these stories, with their easily identifiable villains and ultimately solvable problems, a denial of the world as it is, an abdication of the sad truth? That we are watching evil be defeated while our civilization is being nibbled by ducks? If you don’t have that nagging thought at least part of the time while inhabiting these products of our imagination, you have no leg left in the reality we also inhabit. The story dwells within that nagging thought.

What’s the best twist ending in a story you’ve ever read?

 “Best?” There’s no “Best.” Ask me on any day and I will give you a different answer than on any other day. You want one that comes to mind, that I happen to love? The Subterranean Season by Dale Bailey. A Lovecraftian horror novel melded with one of those mainstream stories about a randy, dissatisfied academic trying to hold it together. It’s a hilarious work that, all of a sudden, on its very last page (don’t bother looking ahead) makes perfect retroactive sense.

Any news or upcoming projects?

I write this while daily complaining on my Facebook page about the eight floating balloons (career developments) that have been teasing me for months that I am not currently free to talk about. This has been going on for about a year. Progress is visible, but not in the direction of being able to talk about them. The one thing I can say is that I have completed my mainstream thriller, which might or might not end up being called Behemoth, and it will be making the rounds shortly.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Jude Griffin is an envirogeek, writer, and photographer. She 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: Timothy Mudie

Laurel Amberdine | 756 words

What was the first thing you knew about “The Elephants’ Crematorium” before you began writing it?

 With this story, I actually knew the title before anything else. I was watching some nature documentary about elephants, and the phrase “elephants’ crematorium” sprang into my head. While I knew that elephants’ graveyards aren’t actually real, that idea stuck with me and began percolating. The rest of the story came as I developed just why this group of elephants would be self-immolating, and then the parallel human aspects came from that. In the initial conception, James was going to be the viewpoint character, but as I thought about it, I realized that this is Liyana’s story. Once that clicked into place, everything else followed.

Did you already have a lot of knowledge about elephants before you started, or did you have to do research? What were your best sources of information, in either case?

 I probably had more knowledge about elephants than your average dude on the street, but I was (and am) certainly no expert. Since I was a kid, I’ve been very interested in nature and animals, and so I knew some facts that influenced the story, such as that elephants appear to mourn their dead. But I still had to do a fair amount of research on things like group dynamics and elephant intelligence. Mostly, I just googled things like “elephant society” and “elephant intelligence” and then read a whole bunch of articles. Honestly, the Wikipedia page for “elephant cognition” was a great resource in terms of how many articles it linked to, which I could then read for deeper background.

I really liked the background of a world gone mad and dying for reasons that our characters don’t understand, with all these strange effects, like the hyenas! Do you have any plans to write other stories in this setting, and maybe explore what happened and how it all turns out? (Because if not, I would like to suggest that . . .)

 Well, now I’m thinking about it! Seriously, though, it was not something I’d given a lot of thought to, as I haven’t set multiple stories in the same world before. When I was working on this story, I did think about the world at large, and just what might be going on there, but nothing all that concrete. But now that you’ve got my wheels spinning, maybe something more will materialize!

I know you also write novels. How does your process differ between novels and short stories?

 I think the biggest difference is that with short stories I know much more about how things will go. I almost never write full-on outlines, but I have the big moments in my head (and sometimes written in a notebook) before I start writing a short story. By the time I sit down to write a story, I know not just the major plot points and character moments, but the themes that I’m hoping to address as well. Novels are different, in that I have the big moments in my head, but a lot is still worked out during the drafting stage. And it hasn’t been until after my initial draft that I really figure out what the novel is about on a deeper level than simply what happens. Of course, I should add the caveat that I’ve only written two novels so far, so things could change down the road.

What are you working on now?

 As you mentioned above, I do write novels as well, and my second novel is currently with my agent, so hopefully it will get some good feedback, at which point I’ll revise further and then he’ll send it out to publishers. In the meantime, I’ve been working on short fiction, with one story that I’m about halfway through drafting, and a handful more that have finished first drafts and are waiting for revision. My plan is to finish this current story, put it aside with the others for a while, and then begin work on my next novel, which I have mostly prepped. And then when I need to change things up a bit while I’m working on that, I can go back to those drafted stories and edit them. And then get them on the submission carousel!

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in San Francisco where she works for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Author Spotlight: Ruth Joffre

Arley Sorg | 2033 words

From the outset, Fiona is at odds with the people around her, with the expectations of her culture, and with what she sees as her future. Ironically, she doesn’t really start fitting in until she becomes something of an anomaly. Is this simply compelling fiction? Or is this also drawing on your own experiences?

Growing up, I felt at odds with society because of my sexual orientation, and though I was never ashamed of my queerness, I was certainly aware of the fact that it was frowned upon by certain members of my family. In order to be myself, I had to step back, live my own life, which meant pursuing writing instead of getting a “real job” like they expected. I think this otherness is a large part of what fuels my fiction, which is largely uninterested in the lives of the status quo. Fiona is like me, in the sense that she chafes against society’s expectations. Some of her experiences are my own: attending graduate school, critiquing student films (as an undergraduate, I studied both film and literature), and falling in love with the wrong person, someone I mistakenly believed to be “the one.” That experience fueled the story.

In terms of the writing process, where did this story start for you and how did it develop?

This was a concept-driven story. I wanted very much to write about my experience of mistakenly believing I had found “the one,” but I also knew that the essential plot of that story wasn’t new or even that interesting in and of itself. I needed to find a way to maintain the core of the love story while allowing myself to explore the themes of doubt and self-deception in a more nuanced way. Once I hit upon the idea of the timer, the story progressed from there, and, though I had no idea, when I began, where each scene would lead me, I was able to write the first draft straight through just by following the logical turns in the narrative. Once I introduced the infallible timer, I knew I had to undermine it. As soon as Fiona started to accept her completion date, I changed it. When Fiona met Marian, I withheld the happy ending. These were all decisions I made in the course of writing. Nothing was planned, and yet the story as it appears now is not much different from that first draft. One scene, the last, is a bit longer, but that’s all.

This piece takes the idea of finding “the one” to the next level, making it even more of a given (to a point), but then plays with notions around what “the one” actually is, subverting mainstream prescriptive concepts. Why, do you think, are we as enraptured as we are with the notion of a standard storybook/movie romance?

Storybook romances like those seen in Hollywood are popular for a reason: They offer a sense of certainty and security that doesn’t exist in the real world. Lovers in these stories are “destined” to be together, are “perfect” for each other, feel “completed” by their “true love.” These phrases all carry with them a sense of finality, of having reached the conclusion of the story: You have found your love, and now you’ll never have to worry again. But the reality is that you do have to worry. Relationships are messy. Divorce rates are high. A friend of mine recently told me that her ex is much better at emotional support than her husband, which is not to say that she doesn’t love her husband, just that he isn’t perfect and that sometimes she’s disappointed by that fact. Hollywood romances have given us unreasonable expectations of what a significant other should be: At once your best friend, perfect lover, and emotional rock, “the one” is supposed to be your everything. It’s a comforting idea, certainly, and I can understand why people yearn for it, but few among us can say with 100% certainty that they’re with the right person. Nor should they have to. I think if we put less pressure on ourselves to find “the one” early, we would be much more satisfied in our relationships overall.

Especially powerful, I think, is the idea that soulmates may not be pleasant at first, and that the situation can be kind of bad for a long time, but that people reshape themselves or put up with those situations because of a promise of some kind of fulfillment. Is it human instinct, a drive for community and companionship? Or are we culturally conditioned to change or control parts of ourselves in order to be part of something else?

I think the willingness to change yourself in order to become part of something else—whether it be a high school clique, a football team, a marriage—is culturally conditioned, yes, although the desire to be part of something feels more innate. We should separate the fact of a desire from the lengths someone is willing to go to in order to achieve it, because those lengths vary significantly based on various factors, particularly gender. Women are taught from an early age that they have to please their man, that in order to do that they have to look a certain way or be a certain weight or put up with all manner of misogynistic and abusive behaviors. The recent #MeToo movement has shed light on how toxic this conditioning has been for our society. I knew, when I invented the timer, that it wasn’t a panacea. It wasn’t going to fix the problem of toxic masculinity or rape culture. Instead, it just dangled a carrot at the end of it: Put up with this, and you’ll get your soul mate out of it. I’ve always found that element of the story very frightening.

I enjoyed the depictions of nontraditional relationships of various kinds, set out in nonjudgmental portrayals and normalized within the story. In the hands of another author, these representations might have looked very different, or not appeared at all. Is showing different sorts of relationships important? Also—is there a suggestion here that, in a world where an inevitable pairing could be anyone, cultures will naturally develop that are less prejudicial and more open-minded?

Most of my stories feature queer characters, and, from a political perspective, it has always been important to me to tell stories that straight white society might otherwise overlook. As a writer, I think it’s important to be able to write outside of yourself, to explore characters who are of a sex, gender, race, class, martial status, education level, or body type other than your own. This is just good practice. We can’t practice our craft honestly if we never consider any opinion or life other than our own. When we don’t, the narratives become limited, the characters repetitive. We don’t grow, and that’s death for a writer.

Though I would like to believe that a world where “the one” could be anyone (regardless of race, gender, or religion) would be more open-minded, I think the reality is that prejudice would still exist, though in a somewhat different form. People will naturally develop their own preferences. And expectations. To say nothing of scientifically inaccurate beliefs of the statistical likelihood of X, Y, or Z pairing. For example, a cishet man who earnestly believes his soul mate will be a woman will undoubtedly react poorly when it turns out his soulmate is a gay man. Homophobia and racism are still possible in the world of “Nitrate Nocturnes,” but I did not go out of my way to make room for them.

The ending was surprising but effective. Did you try out different endings or was this where you always wanted the story to go?

I always knew I wanted to end the story in that setting, with Fiona sitting in the darkened theater, but I didn’t know going in that Marian would be sitting next to her. I debated that for a long time (whether to bring them back together or keep them apart). For a while, I considered having Fiona sit off to one side and watch jealously as Marian and her boyfriend enjoyed themselves, but there could be no real resolution in that version; it would only have driven Fiona crazy and needlessly twisted the knife in her heart. Eventually, I realized that I could have it both ways: bring the two back together and keep them apart by not resolving the issue of Marian’s timer. The implication is that Marian timer’s has X amount of time left and Fiona will stay with Marian in the hope that, when Marian reaches her completion date, she’ll be on the other end of it.

Is there anything else you want readers to know about you or this piece?

This story was inspired in no small part by my time at Cornell Cinema. In college, I worked there evenings and weekends, and I attended parties much like the one in the final scene of this story—including one where I saw a strip of nitrate film burned before my very eyes. It’s rare, in the age of DVDs and digital media, to experience film in this way: to feed the projector, to watch for the circle that tells you to change the reel, to see a film decay. For all the glories of high-def, there’s something being lost in the transition from celluloid to digital. I suppose what I’m saying is this: Support your local art house theatres. You might just find the love of your life there.

You’ve been publishing for a while now and your collection Night Beast is coming out in May. You have made a study and practice of fiction, through both academics and workshops. How has your writing changed in the last few years? Are there aspects or elements of writing that are more of a struggle for you?

All through undergrad and up until my second semester in grad school, I wrote pretty exclusively literary fiction and poetry. That all changed when I took Kevin Brockmeier’s workshop at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. This was a workshop devoted entirely to science fiction and fantasy, and the experience changed the way I thought about my craft. I had of course grown up on Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, and Ender’s Game, so I was no stranger to genre fiction—I had just never written it before. I suppose a part of me thought I wasn’t capable of it. And then, over the course of the semester, I wrote this strange, magical novelette about Buddhist monks living in a fishing village, where they make a substance known as “wax” that has extraordinary healing properties. It was so far removed from anything else that I had written that I was kind of astounded and had no idea if I could do it again. I waited a long time for my next science fiction idea to come to me. For me, the hardest part of writing is waiting for an idea to arrive fully formed. Often, I get impatient and start writing something before I’m emotionally or intellectually prepared for it. That’s always a mistake.

What are you working on now that we can look forward to?

Right now, I’m working on a novel called Blood and Sweat. It’s set in a world that is suffering from an outbreak of a deadly new single-strand RNA lentivirus. My main characters, a gay man and a transwoman, are trapped inside a massive quarantine in New York City, where they must struggle to survive as society deteriorates around them. My goal is to finish the novel and sell it this year. Fingers crossed!

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Arley Sorg grew up in England, Hawaii, and Colorado. He studied Asian Religions at Pitzer College. He lives in Oakland, and usually writes in local coffee shops. A 2014 Odyssey Writing Workshop graduate, he is an assistant editor at Locus Magazine. He’s soldering together a novel, has thrown a few short stories into orbit, and hopes to launch more.

Coming Attractions

The Editors | 134 words

Coming up in May, in Lightspeed . . .

We have original science fiction by Carolyn Ives Gilman (“We Will Be All Right”) and Jane Lindskold (“A Green Moon Problem”), along with SF reprints by Tobias S. Buckell (“Sunset”) and David Brin (“The Crystal Spheres”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by Martin Cahill (“Godmeat”) and Kodiak Julian (“Our Side of the Door”), and fantasy reprints by Xia Jia (“Night Journey of the Dragon-Horse”) and John Grant (“His Artist Wife”).

All that, and of course we also have our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with our book and media review columns.

For our ebook readers, we also have an ebook-exclusive novella reprint (“Great Work of Time,” by John Crowley) and a book excerpt.

It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out.

Stay Connected

The Editors

Here are a few URLs you might want to check out or keep handy if you’d like to stay apprised of everything new and notable happening with Lightspeed:

Website

www.lightspeedmagazine.com

Destroy Projects

www.destroysf.com

Newsletter

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/newsletter

RSS Feed

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/rss-2

Podcast Feed

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/itunes-rss

Twitter

www.twitter.com/LightspeedMag

Facebook

www.facebook.com/LightspeedMagazine

Google+

plus.google.com/+LightspeedMagazine

Subscribe

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/subscribe

Subscriptions and Ebooks

The Editors

Subscriptions: If you enjoy reading Lightspeed, please consider subscribing. It’s a great way to support the magazine, and you’ll get your issues in the convenient ebook format of your choice. All purchases from the Lightspeed store are provided in epub, mobi, and pdf format. A 12-month subscription to Lightspeed includes 96 stories (about 480,000 words of fiction, plus assorted nonfiction). The cost is just $35.88 ($12 off the cover price)—what a bargain! For more information, visit lightspeedmagazine.com/subscribe.

Ebooks & Bundles: We also have individual ebook issues available at a variety of ebook vendors ($3.99 each), and we now have Ebook Bundles available in the Lightspeed ebookstore, where you can buy in bulk and save! We currently have a number of ebook bundles available: Year One (issues 1-12), Year Two (issues 13-24), Year Three (issues 25-36), the Mega Bundle (issues 1-36), and the Supermassive Bundle (issues 1-48). 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. Visit lightspeedmagazine.com/store for more information.

• • • •

All caught up on Lightspeed? Good news! We also have lots of ebooks available from our sister-publications:

Nightmare Ebooks, Bundles, & Subscriptions: Like Lightspeed, our sister-magazine Nightmare (nightmare-magazine.com) also has ebooks, bundles, and subscriptions available as well. For instance, you can get the complete first year (12 issues) of Nightmare for just $24.99; that’s savings of $11 off buying the issues individually. Or, if you’d like to subscribe, a 12-month subscription to Nightmare includes 48 stories (about 240,000 words of fiction, plus assorted nonfiction), and will cost you just $23.88 ($12 off the cover price).

Fantasy Magazine Ebooks & Bundles: We also have 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!).

Support Us on Patreon or Drip, or How to Become a Dragonrider or Space Wizard

The Editors

If you’re reading this, then there’s a good chance you’re a regular reader of Lightspeed and/or Nightmare. We already offer ebook subscriptions as a way of supporting the magazines, but we wanted to add an additional option to allow folks to support us, thus we’ve launched a Drip (d.rip/john-joseph-adams) and a Patreon (patreon.com/JohnJosephAdams).

TL;DR Version

If you enjoy Lightspeed and Nightmare and my anthologies, our Patreon and Drip pages are a way for you to help support those endeavors by chipping in a buck or more on a recurring basis. Your support will help us bring bigger and better (and more) projects into the world.

Why Patreon and Drip?

There are no big companies supporting or funding the magazines, so the magazines really rely on reader support. Though we offer the magazines online for free, we’re able to fund them by selling ebook subscriptions or website advertising.

While we have a dedicated ebook subscriber base, the vast majority of our readers consume the magazine online for free. If just 10% of our website readers pledged just $1 a month, the magazines would be doing fantastically well. So we thought it might be useful to have an option like Drip and Patreon for readers who maybe haven’t considered supporting the magazine, or who maybe haven’t because they don’t have any desire to receive the ebook editions—or who would be glad to pay $1 a month, but not $3 (the cost of a monthly subscriber issue of Lightspeed).

Though Lightspeed and Nightmare are separate entities, we decided to create a single “publisher” Drip and Patreon account because it seemed like it would be more efficient to manage just one page on each platform. Plus, since I sometimes independently publish works using indie-publishing tools (as described above), we thought it would be good to have a single place where folks could come to show their support for such projects.

Basically, we wanted to create a crowdfunding page where, if you enjoy my work as an editor, and you want to contribute a little something to help make it easier for us to produce more cool projects, then our Drip or Patreon are the place to do that.

What Do I Get Out of Being a Backer or Patron?

Well, you get the satisfaction of helping to usher the creation of cool new short fiction projects into the world! Plus, the more support we get, the better we can make the magazines and compensate our authors and staff. By becoming a supporter via Patreon or Drip, you help fund our growth and continued publication of two award-winning magazines. Of course, if you’re already one of our ebook subscribers (thank you!), you are already supporting us. This is for those who prefer to read the issues each month on our free websites, or wish to support our efforts more generally.

By becoming a supporter, you are also bestowed a title, such as Dragonrider, or Space Wizard, or Savior of the World and/or Universe, thus making you instantly the envy of all your friends.

Thank You!

If you’ve read this far, thanks so much. We hope you’ll consider becoming a backer on Patreon or Drip. Those URLs again are d.rip/john-joseph-adams and patreon.com/JohnJosephAdams.

Thanks in advance for your time. We look forward to hopefully being able to make the magazines—and my other publishing endeavors—even better with the support of people like you.

About the Lightspeed Team

The Editors

Publisher/Editor-in-Chief

John Joseph Adams

Managing/Associate Editor

Wendy N. Wagner

Associate Publisher/Director of Special Projects

Christie Yant

Assistant Publisher

Robert Barton Bland

Reprint Editor

Rich Horton

Podcast Producer

Stefan Rudnicki

Podcast Editor/Host

Jim Freund

Art Director

John Joseph Adams

Assistant Editor

Laurel Amberdine

Editorial Assistant

Jude Griffin

Reviewers

Arley Sorg

LaShawn Wanak

Christie Yant

Carrie Vaughn

Christopher East

Joseph Allen Hill

Copy Editor

Dana Watson

Proofreaders

Anthony R. Cardno

Devin Marcus

Webmaster

Jeremiah Tolbert of Clockpunk Studios

Also Edited by John Joseph Adams

The Editors

If you enjoy reading Lightspeed (and/or Nightmare), you might also enjoy these works edited by John Joseph Adams:

ANTHOLOGIES

THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 1: The End is Nigh (with Hugh Howey)

THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 2: The End is Now (with Hugh Howey)

THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 3: The End Has Come (with Hugh Howey)

Armored

Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy 2015 (with Joe Hill)

Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy 2016 (with Karen Joy Fowler)

Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy 2017 (with Charles Yu)

Brave New Worlds

By Blood We Live

Cosmic Powers

Dead Man’s Hand

Epic: Legends Of Fantasy

Federations

The Improbable Adventures Of Sherlock Holmes

HELP FUND MY ROBOT ARMY!!! and Other Improbable Crowdfunding Projects

Lightspeed: Year One

The Living Dead

The Living Dead 2

Loosed Upon the World

The Mad Scientist’s Guide To World Domination

Operation Arcana

Other Worlds Than These

Oz Reimagined (with Douglas Cohen)

Press Start to Play (with Daniel H. Wilson)

Robot Uprisings (with Daniel H. Wilson)

Seeds of Change

Under the Moons of Mars

Wastelands

Wastelands 2

The Way Of The Wizard

What the #@&% Is That? (with Douglas Cohen)

NOVELS and COLLECTIONS

Beacon 23 by Hugh Howey

Shift by Hugh Howey

Dust by Hugh Howey

Bannerless by Carrie Vaughn

Sand by Hugh Howey

Retrograde by Peter Cawdron

Machine Learning: New and Collected Stories by Hugh Howey

Creatures of Will and Temper by Molly Tanzer

The City of Lost Fortunes by Bryan Camp

The Robots of Gotham by Todd McAulty

The Wild Dead by Carrie Vaughn

In the Night Wood by Dale Bailey

Creatures of Want and Ruin by Molly Tanzer

Upon a Burning Throne by Ashok K. Banker

Visit johnjosephadams.com to learn more about all of the above.