TABLE OF CONTENTS

Issue 97, June 2018

FROM THE EDITOR

Editorial: June 2018

SCIENCE FICTION

I Sing Against the Silent Sun
A. Merc Rustad and Ada Hoffman

Tie Goes to the Runner
Russell Nichols

A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Lighthouse of Quvenle the Seer
Lina Rather

Contractual Obligation
James L. Cambias

FANTASY

The Carpenter and the Beast of Teeth
Micah Dean Hicks

The Quiltbag
Ashok K. Banker

The Diamond Girl
Courtney Bird

From the Root
Emma Törzs

NOVELLA

There’s a Hole in October
Todd McAulty

EXCERPTS

Leander Watts | Meet Me in the Strange
Leander Watts

Todd McAulty | The Robots of Gotham
Todd McAulty

NONFICTION

Book Reviews: June 2018
Arley Sorg

Media Review: June 2018
Violet Allen

Interview: Lara Elena Donnelly
Christian A. Coleman

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

A. Merc Rustad and Ada Hoffman

Ashok K. Banker

Lina Rather

Emma Törzs

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 Reiko Murakami

www.lightspeedmagazine.com

Editorial: June 2018

John Joseph Adams | 1795 words

Welcome to issue ninety-seven of Lightspeed!

This month’s cover art is by Reiko Murakami, illustrating an original science fiction story by A. Merc Rustad and Ada Hoffman (“I Sing Against the Silent Sun”). We also have an original SF piece by Lina Rather (“A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Lighthouse of Quvenle the Seer”), along with SF reprints by Russell Nichols (“Tie Goes to the Runner”) and James Cambias (“Contractual Obligation”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by Ashok K. Banker (“The Quiltbag”) and Emma Törzs (“From the Root”), and fantasy reprints by Micah Dean Hicks (“The Carpenter and the Beast of Teeth”) and Courtney Bird (“The Diamond Girl”).

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 reprint of the fantasy novella “There’s a Hole in October” by Todd McAulty. We also have excerpts from Meet Me in the Strange, a new novel by Leander Watts, and the novel The Robots of Gotham by Todd McAulty.

Awards News

The Shirley Jackson Awards finalists have been announced, and we’re pleased to see that “The West Topeka Triangle” by Jeremiah Tolbert (from Lightspeed, January 2017) is among the finalists; we’re likewise pleased to see that “You Will Always Have Family: A Triptych” by Kathleen Kayembe (from Nightmare, March 2017) is also a finalist. Huge congrats to Jeremiah and Kathleen, and to all of the other finalists. The winners will be announced on July 15 at Readercon 29, in Quincy, Massachusettes. To learn more, and to see the complete list of finalists, visit shirleyjacksonawards.org.

The Locus Award finalists have also been announced, and we’re very pleased to see that Lightspeed is among the finalists for Best Magazine, and yours truly is a finalist for Best Editor! In related news, my anthology Cosmic Powers is a finalist for Best Anthology, and Tobias S. Buckell’s story from Cosmic Powers, “Zen and the Art of Starship Maintenance” (also reprinted in Lightspeed, February 2018), is a finalist for Best Short Story. Thanks so much to all who voted for the above—it’s an honor to be nominated. The winners will be announced during the Locus Awards Weekend, June 22-24, in Seattle, Washington. To learn more, and to see the full list of finalists, visit locusmag.com.

Finalists for the Eugie Foster Memorial Award have been announced, and Tobias S. Buckell’s aforementioned “Zen and the Art of Starship Maintenance” is also a finalist for this award, as is Violet Allen’s “Infinite Love Engine” (Lightspeed + Cosmic Powers, April 2017). Congrats to Toby and Violet for this honor, and to all of the other finalists as well. To see a complete list of the finalists, visit eugiefoster.com/eugieaward.

The Caine Prize for African Writing announced its finalists for the 2018 award, and we’re pleased to see that Wole Talabi’s “Wednesday’s Story,” from the May 2016 issue of Lightspeed is among the contenders for this year’s prize. To see the full lists of finalists, or learn more about the award, visit caineprize.com. Congrats to Wole and all of the other nominees!

John Joseph Adams Books News for June 2018

Here’s a quick rundown what to expect from John Joseph Adams Books in 2018:

On April 17, we published 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 what people have been saying about 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.

You can read an excerpt in this month’s ebook edition of Lightspeed. Meanwhile, here’s what some early readers are saying about this one:

“Extrapolates a scary AI-overrun 2083 that’s only a few steps removed from today’s reality. This massive and impressive novel [. . .] maintains breathless momentum throughout. Readers will hope for more tales of this sinister future and eagerly pick up on hints that Barry and his companions may continue their exploits.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“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

Further out in 2018, we’ll have The Wild Dead—Carrie Vaughn’s sequel to Bannerless—in July; Gene Doucette’s The Spaceship Next Door in September, 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.

I Sing Against the Silent Sun

A. Merc Rustad and Ada Hoffman | 8890 words

END

In the Principality there bule the Seven Suns. Armored gods, they marched through the universe eons ago, wreathed in subjected angels, and left footprints of conquest on galaxies. They dragged beneath them the corpse-heat from a billion burning worlds.

The sixth Sun, the Gray Sun, is a god of silence. There is no voice, no mercy, no music within the Gray Sun.

Beneath the Gray Sun there is only emptiness.

AFTER SILENCE — The Year 2984

In docking space over Varos Ci, Vector Bearing Light receives a holo-transmission from the Hand of Dust and Shadow.

Li Sin, half-asleep with an open vidplayer on their knees, straightens, their heartbeat quickening. “How?”

Via encrypted relays, Vector says. She indicates it is urgent.

Vector’s body is a sleek anonymous-colored ship with identification sigils masked in permanent shadow. Fast and adroit, it is not the vessel that once brought terror amid the stars. Li Sin appreciates Vector’s discretion. In Li Sin’s dimly lit quarters, Vector opens a projection screen on one wall and broadcasts the signal.

The image of a tall woman materializes inside the ship. She’s dressed in pearlescent armor and robed and hooded in pale green silk with embroidery that ripples in seascape patterns along the hems. She wears a swan-faced mask crowned with gossamer lights spun into delicate feather-patterns. Her dark skin absorbs the luminance, her eyes obscured by glimmer scales.

The Hand of Dust and Shadow, foremost warlord who operates in the illicit belly of the Principality.

Li Sin knows her by a different name as well: Gerarr Singh, a genderfluid person—their confidant, lover, friend.

Li Sin bows in greeting. “You honor me.”

“You appear well,” she replies.

They nod, a polite lie. Li Sin is neutrois, human, physically unimposing with their slight build and narrow features. They have no outward cybernetic enhancements and are dressed in loose maroon robes over a body-tight compression suit. Tissue can heal; bones can reset; a body, after all, can be remade.

“It’s been some time since you called . . . under this name.”

A familiar smile flits against her mouth. “Discretion becomes me.” Her deep voice is a lullaby in velvet. “Li Sin, the Gray Sun has awoken from dreamless void to hunt again.”

Li Sin bites the side of their tongue too sharply and tastes blood.

They have hidden in their own way, become an anonymous wayfarer among the Principality. Since Genesis Omega, Li Sin cut ties with their old friends and retreated into the half-truth that they had been killed five years prior. A short timespan; it feels like eternity.

“It will seek you out,” she says, an edge of bitter exhaustion in her words.

“What does a god want with the dead?” Li Sin’s voice scrapes raw in their throat. They realize they’re shaking, their breath too fast. “How did it find us?”

It will kill them. And Vector. And everyone else. Li Sin wraps their arms tight about their ribs. No, no, no . . . they cannot jolt their thoughts past helpless denial.

“The universe is vast,” the Hand of Dust and Shadow says. “One presumes that you were seen, recognized, and the transmission passed along networks until the god became aware.”

“I don’t write anymore,” Li Sin says. “I’ve said nothing.”

“I know.” She presses the tips of her fingers together. “I know, dear one.”

Li Sin looks away. They cannot bear to think of her dead, crushed beneath a wrathful god’s heel. “What do you want from me?”

Li Sin, Vector says in Li Sin’s neural link. The signal is being scanned by Varos Ci authorities. We must hurry.

“What I have always wanted,” the Hand of Dust and Shadow says. “I want you to live. Take Vector and flee this system. Disappear again.”

“And leave you?” They bite off the last word, forever, before it cuts their throat from within.

“I would rather you leave me the memory of your smile and bright eyes, Li Sin, than the knowledge of your destruction.” The hood draws a darker shadow against her face. “Please. Go. Say goodbyes if you must, but go. Vector will keep you safe. Perhaps, in time, you will write me.”

Li Sin shakes their head. Tears burn their eyes. They can’t. They’ve been broken for so long.

The Gray Sun has drowsed in unknown space since the fall of the world Cormorant Sigma. Now, it has woken and will be felt again like the horrific rending of bone and skin, a body taken apart by hydraulics and vises.

“Be well and fly true,” the Hand of Dust and Shadow says.

“Wait—”

She bows and the signal disconnects. Li Sin is alone with Vector.

Li Sin shivers, even though Vector keeps its internal temperature regulated to their comfort. “Can you reopen the transmission?”

No. She isn’t responding. Vector was once a warship, but Vector, like Li Sin, is no longer itself. Li Sin has no weapons. They have no army, no allies, no safe havens.

Li Sin cannot fight. They tried before.

They lost.

Li Sin, you’re upset. Should I make tea?

Li Sin shakes their head. They have no appetite and can scarce swallow past anxiety. “Will you text Gerarr, please?”

Of course. What is the message?

Li Sin pulls their knees up to their chin, struggling to breathe. “I would like to see him on Ara Prime, if it will not put him in harm.”

He will tell you it matters not, Vector points out.

Li Sin presses their forehead against their knees until they see colored half-dreams behind their eyelids. Gerarr’s home is the only safe place Li Sin can imagine, and not for long. “I know.”

Sent, Vector says. And after, Li Sin, where do we sail?

Where can they run?

They are one person, with Vector their closest friend, their family—there is nowhere else they might go. They thought their unmaking at the hands of the Gray Sun Lord’s followers had been enough. They have become a ghost.

They have become silent.

• • • •

The shape of your breath
The heat of your eyes
The touch of your name

Your palms, rough-scented with passion
cup my soul

star-bright solar winds may carry us
beyond the universe’s edge
and in the dark, always
in you, I find peace.

—from Our Voices, Lifted: Collected Poems of Li Sin, Vol 1.

• • • •

On Ara Prime, within the domed city of Ja-lai, Li Sin wakes in Gerarr’s arms.

They have visited Gerarr less frequently in the past years; the distance aches like a cracked tooth, but to be close to her—to smell her cologne and her breath, to see the glimmer of mischief in her eyes and bask in the rich baritone of her voice, to feel her hands and lips, her muscled legs pressed against theirs—the sensations build and claw and tumble through Li Sin until they flee again. They are so afraid their touch will one day bring her death.

“You’re still wracked by nightmares.” Gerarr strokes her hand along Li Sin’s naked back. Cosmetics erased the majority of their scars, not the pain that was left behind. Her calloused fingers know just the right amount of pressure to massage. “You should try the dream inhibitors.”

“Coffee works well enough.”

They want their nightmares—sleep-chaos is better than being empty.

Gerarr caresses Li Sin’s side, rubbing her thumb in slow circles against the crease of their hip and thigh. Li Sin stretches, feeling like a mooncat, basking in her affection.

“I would like to fuck you again,” Gerarr murmurs, and plants slow kisses down Li Sin’s spine. “May I have your consent?”

Pleasure tingles along their skin. Li Sin smiles, looking over their shoulder at her. “Yes, you may.”

Later, Gerarr and Li Sin take breakfast on the terrace. The synthetic dawn on Ja-lai is broadcast against the curvature of the atmospheric dome. A blue sun and ascendant moons ringed in fiery green penumbra.

The unspoken tension between them crackles against Li Sin’s skin. They need to tell her goodbye, and the words will not come. Li Sin thinks of her laugh; the feel of Gerarr’s skin when they sleep; the remembered taste of breath and tongue. If they could still write, they would compose for Gerarr.

Vector can only protect Li Sin when they are inside the ship—and Li Sin cannot stay within Vector forever. Existence is the mosaic of many small dangers, not a tapestry of peace.

Li Sin takes a breath. “Gerarr, if the Gray Sun hunts me . . .” They swallow, the aftertaste of coffee sour under their tongue. “I can’t stay.”

Gerarr’s smile slips, her dark eyes intent. Cybernetic implants at her temples shimmer faintly, not yet covered in make-up. “Then go somewhere you will be safe.”

Li Sin’s stomach knots. They look away. “No.”

“What?”

“I know why the Hand of Dust and Shadow warned me. But . . . where can I go?”

Gerarr begins pacing, muscles taut along her back. “Out past the rims. Dangerous, yes, but Vector has always enjoyed exploration. Your ship can keep you well.”

“No. Vector can’t.”

Li Sin remembers too well when they were lured by an old teacher from Vector’s skin and into a trap that placed them in the Gray Sun’s hold. And what came after.

Gerarr turns with such deceptive, languid slowness that one less familiar with her moods might mistake it for hesitation. She is furious. “What are you telling me, love?”

Li Sin bows their head. Vector does not intrude in their intimate moments; the ship keeps a signal open, but leaves Li Sin their privacy when they see Gerarr. Vector does not yet know.

“I’m going to the Arora Nebula. To end this.”

Gerarr’s breath hisses out between her teeth. She leans on the balcony railing. “That means Vector’s death as well as your own.”

Li Sin flinches. “I came to ask you to give me an un-minded ship. Distract Vector for a day . . .”

“I have too much respect for that ship to lie to it,” Gerarr says. “Would you just abandon Vector?”

“I don’t want Vector to die,” Li Sin cries. “Or you. Or anyone else!”

“But you would yourself.”

Li Sin’s anger simmers. “You’re the one who told me the Gray Sun is hunting me. I’ve been fucking silent. What more can a god possibly want?”

“Erasure,” Gerarr says. “To make the universe believe you have never been.”

Li Sin folds their arms tight across their chest, digging their fingers into their upper arms until pain registers. The Gray Sun will not give up, nor will it be satisfied unless it has proof of Li Sin’s destruction. They cannot endure death at the hands of a god. But there are other ways.

Li Sin exhales with deliberate slowness. Focused. “Will you give me a ship?”

Because at that moment they want to hug Gerarr and tell her they will come back. It would be a lie. They can never lie to her.

“I will not be part of your suicide.” Gerarr does not turn. “The answer is no, Li Sin. Forgive me.”

BEFORE SILENCE — The Year 2978

Li Sin is in a café on the planet Ara Desino, drinking tea with Gerarr, when a worshiper of the Gray Sun approaches their table.

The streets of the city of Rigel Phoenix are quiet; rich flower gardens sculpted from native and synth-grown plants line the causeways, with hover traffic kept to side streets. It is an old city, one not built from fast-growing, adaptable printer-tech that maps cityskins over terraformed worlds. It is ancient stone and alloy mined from the planet’s crust. It has the memory of old song and text layered in age and architecture, and Li Sin loves basking in the smell of stone and earth.

The café’s holo-ads and ambient music—bells, strings, whalesong—mute in deference. Patrons lapse into silence, tension woven among them like viscous threads.

Li Sin looks up.

The general wears only a fashionable synthcloth suit that slants to metallic hues in daylight—no armor. His lower jaw has been surgically removed, his throat replaced with silver plates. The scent of ginger tingles the air around him.

Li Sin’s spine tenses.

Gerarr smiles and bows his head in oblique greeting. May we help you, lord? he texts on public bandwidth.

The general’s gaze remains fixed on Li Sin.

You will be silent.

The text has the weight of unbending authority, displayed for any to read.

“Why?” Li Sin asks aloud, clenching their fists atop the table.

This is a world where the Gray Sun has not eradicated all the languages; it has not erased the sounds of warbling moths like on Xipindaro, or the hymns of ancient corals that rose from Mandrake Orion’s oceans during the low tides. This world is not littered with the throat-slit corpses of those who refused to cut out their tongues on command in the Candurron Xo Nebula.

Li Sin has spoken out against the Sun Lords in every media they can manage: poetry, essays, holo-vids, speaking in person to fellow revolutionaries on many different worlds. Their strongest tool is their words: writing as fast and vicious as they can, sending texts out on the networks and printing them against buildings where others will see. They let their face and their voice be an icon for rebellion.

They have always known it will end in blood. It does not mean they will stop.

The Gray Sun Lord commands.

The general’s eyes are blank, cybernetic interfaces scrolling data over pupils.

Li Sin smiles through clenched teeth. “I’m sure it does.”

Gerarr lays his hand on Li Sin’s forearm, warning. “Enough, love.”

Vector sends an image culled from the satellites orbiting Ara Desino: Eternal War Brings Victory is an Omega Ascendant warship, vast and sleek, eerily unadorned—there is no art or scripts of conquest along its surface. While its weaponry might be sheathed and guns cooled, its war drones sealed in stasis, it is still threat incarnate.

You will be silent.

The Gray Sun’s general turns and stalks from the café.

• • • •

My lover and I, orbiting slowly
the heart of the Foxear Nebula.
Gold-green dust glitters
to the edges of vision and past.
I stretch out my arms.
As if I could gather these star-ghosts to me,
inhale them like attar smoke,
press them with warm hands to my chest.
This light and color, the size
of a hundred suns. I could bury my feet
in its shining sand,
cry aloud to its edges
the passion that begets the stars.

The lights before us slowly turn,
nestled in the gold-green clouds
that sustain them. No edict of death
has yet reached this place.
I turn my fingertips in my lover’s palm,
aflame with the hope that draws stars
out of ashes, gold out of blackness,
reborn and reborn and reborn.

—from Our Voices, Lifted: Collected Poems of Li Sin, Vol 1.

• • • •

Li Sin stands on the towering ribcage of an elder saurian, yellowed bone gleaming in the light of the daystar. They look over the plains, red grass rippling, emptiness stretching for miles. They left Ara Desino in defiance, rage burning hot in their heart.

Here on Brion Isor-7, they are as close to the Arora Nebula as Vector deems safe. The furthest planet in the sector; only belts of asteroids and debris, gas clouds, and the waves of space separate this atmosphere from the destroyed ruins of Cormorant Sigma.

The sky looks angel-chewed, scrappy clouds drifting across deadened sky.

Their birthship once told them a story about angels: devouring swarms that lived in folds of subspace long ago. At the summons of the Seven Suns, the angels came and ate the ships who opposed the gods. Dust leeches, microscopic organisms living in red-wave space, were the remains of the angels. Disease. Parasites. A fitting legacy for the gods.

A dust leech infection destroyed Li Sin’s birthship. The Gray Sun was responsible for Ascending Dawn’s death.

So much the gods have taken. Li Sin will never forgive.

Is this wise? Vector asks, its pilot-hologram standing beside Li Sin on top of bone.

Li Sin bares their teeth against the wind.

The Gray Sun sent a plague to this world before the Arora Nebula was devastated. Brion Isor-7 once gave birth to numerous saurian races who built the first voidportals, before ships could autonomously jump into the subspace waves. The saurian priests, names erased after death, carved murals into caves and mountain walls to preserve what they could: history, memory, and language now forgotten. The plague reacted to vocalization, constructed so it was linked to genetic code, and ravished tissue in days, stripping bodies into skeletons that could never again sing or scream.

So Li Sin shouts:

Bones of my brothers, bone-slivers,
crumble in death’s long wake.
My fingertips brush the spine’s archway:
under glove, skin, flesh, and nail,
the same bare chassis lumbers on
through life. Even if this is the end
of all, I cannot help but open
teeth still rooted in red gums:
I cannot help but raise my song
while breath is in me.

If the Gray Sun demands silence, all Li Sin will do is raise their voice, pour out their words and stories and vicious joy into the aether.

“Hear me!” They lift their arms. “I will not bow to the gods!”

Since they escaped Cormorant Sigma, they have written and spoken and fought and bled in rebellion against the gods. They are called revolutionary; they will not stop.

Let the Gray Sun come.

As a child in the monastery station orbiting Orion Ascendant, Li Sin had dug through holo-feeds and networked archives from external terminals until Vector cracked the encryption on military banks from the Fleet of the Seven.

ON COMMAND OF THE GRAY SUN, ALL IN THE ARORA NEBULA IS TO BE SILENCED.

Cormorant Sigma’s population: 32,205.

The thirteen other inhabited worlds: twenty-seven million.

Only Li Sin and Vector survived.

Li Sin shouts their poetry until they are hoarse. Time shall witness the memoires of their ships; the universe will enfold this song into space, spread it like particles of light from the beginning of Life until the final collapse of matter and the burning of void.

AFTER SILENCE — The Year 2984

Li Sin cannot lie to Vector. On their return from seeing Gerarr, they sit in the cargo hold, staring at the steel ribs and bright blue holo-paints: wavescapes and starscapes intertwined. They hold a knife against the inside of their arm, tempted to press until bone shows. Sharp sensation would distract from the yawning emptiness inside.

They cling to the hope Gerarr would help them; that she would save Vector, when Li Sin cannot.

Perhaps, if the Gray Sun wants them dead, it is better to do it here. Vector has felt enough of their blood on its skin in the past. Even if Vector will not forgive them.

Please talk to me, Vector says. Vector can form a simulacrum from its maintenance drones and easily bind Li Sin. Vector could take the knife and Li Sin could not resist.

“I’m drowning.” Li Sin presses their forehead against Vector’s floor panels, the knife hilt digging into their ribs. “It’s a void—it fills my throat and swallows thoughts. I can’t breathe.”

Vector rarely manifests a hologram of itself anymore; not its old body, the warship, but a genderless humanoid form with no mouth and large rounded eyes, digital screens flickering with coordinates. Its pilot, once. The hologram unfolds beside Li Sin and touches ethereal fingers against their jaw. Do you intend to leave?

Li Sin shivers. “Is it terrible to want that?”

The ship is silent. All Li Sin hears is their own choked breath; all they feel is the aching vastness outside Vector’s hull.

No, Vector says at last. But I would like it if you stayed.

“Time is the only difference,” Li Sin says.

The hologram brushes its fingers along down Li Sin’s cheek, and they look up into the once-pilot’s eyes.

There is something I must tell you.

Li Sin takes a slow breath, still trembling.

The Gray Sun is my maker, Vector says, and when I protested the silence-bringing destruction of worlds in the Arora Nebula—when I spoke—the Gray Sun decommissioned me.

The sudden weight of admission sinks into Li Sin’s belly. They saw Vector fall: a fiery beacon that shook the world of Cormorant Sigma upon impact, thirty miles from the nearest city. It was the first warning any of the colonists had that death had come.

Li Sin found Vector’s body, crawled inside the ship, and when they expected to die, they befriended Vector instead. The ship showed them a single stasis pod, undamaged, and Li Sin, carrying Vector’s unmoored consciousness, sealed themself away.

My god boarded and unmade my crew. My pilot could not stop the Gray Sun, and neither could I. We could only watch as they all died. All of them, turned into ash. My family. The hologram shivers, head bowed. The Gray Sun left me to die on Cormorant Sigma as the world burned.

Li Sin lifts a hand to the hologram’s face. “Vector . . .”

It is not only you the god seeks, the ship says. It will hunt me as well. I exist, and that is enough to warrant the wrath of mortals and gods alike. Besides. Who will I talk with if you are gone?

Li Sin trembles.

We can flee.

“We’ll be hunted.” They cannot return to the Fall of Voices; when they departed with Vector, neither Li Sin nor the ship could remember how to find the planet again. “Always. Anyone we encounter will be in danger merely from association.”

Gerarr told them, before they returned to Vector, that she would be in no danger. She, after all, was the Hand of Dust and Shadow. She could hold her own against a god.

“Gerarr offered us asylum,” Li Sin says. “She was prepared to fight the Gray Sun on our behalf.”

What did you say?

“In another life, we can find each other again.” Li Sin rubs their arms, the sense of their insignificance gaping wide inside them. “Gerarr cannot save us all. Someone, somewhere, would die because we stayed. Isn’t that how gods work?”

Vector plays a recording of the Epsilon Ascendant Opera House’s rendition of Nabria Kloso’s Love Letter Sent from the Event Horizon of a Black Hole. The music and vocals have always calmed Li Sin, sad as the melodies are. Letter-writer Gia’s devastating aria, “When I Find You Beyond the Laws of Time,” crescendos to the accompaniment of a solo harp.

It is like dipping their fingers in the Fall of Voices once more. Li Sin’s heart aches.

They sheathe the knife and lean back against Vector’s wall.

There is one possibility to consider, Vector says.

“What is it?”

We destroy the Gray Sun. I’ve calculated a point three percent chance of success. If the Gray Sun Lord is indeed on Cormorant Sigma.

“Do you know it is there?”

Vector hesitates. It is a burr in my mind, a fragment of knowing I have had since my fall. I will be able to locate my god’s position.

Li Sin’s neck prickles with fear. “And then?”

We burn, Vector says. Plummet from high orbit and burn the Sun where it stands. Our death on our own terms, in fire.

• • • •

I am cold. The sky stretches
above and below me, black, barren
darkness forever. And you, a pinpoint
at my fingertip: Light.

A billion years had passed
between the coalescence of gaseous
matter, and the first young stars.
Ten trillion years will stretch out,
lightless in the cold throes of heat-death,
after the last stars’ end. But there is you,
now, a flicker before me: Light.

Love, we cannot measure time
in emptiness, in distance:
only in the bright specks
seen and touched between.
Only in your fleeting lips
against my forehead: Light.

—from Our Voices, Lifted: Collected Poems of Li Sin, Vol 3.

SILENCE — The Year 2979

They were taken to Genesis Omega.

Pain. Sensory deprivation. Trauma relived (watching Ascending Dawn fly to her death, hearing their bornship Moondark Glory Surpassing Time self-immolate) over and over with auditory triggers.

Mouthless worshipers, heads banded with neural suppressant caps, watched them through sound-dampening restraint-fields. Watched as they were broken.

Torture Li Sin thought they could endure, knowing it would end in death. Pain was fleeting. They had been hurt and raped before. They had survived. And they would not be silent.

But then the sorcerer came: a tall wisp of bone and skin, with eyes so blue they burned, and the sorcerer reached in with a ghosthand and drew fingers like knives through Li Sin’s throat. Up, into their thoughts, into their consciousness. Rending. Tearing.

Ragged strips of words and song unfurled between the sorcerer’s fingers, siphoned out through the sharpened edges of the ghosthand. The sorcerer took and took and took, and Li Sin was denied even screams. Bound, helpless, as the sorcerer uncoiled their poetry, their desire to write, shredding it and leaving only pain.

You will be silent.

When the sorcerer glided from the cell, leaving Li Sin sprawled on the floor, they could not make a sound.

Silence.

They forgot whatever else was done to them.

It was the screams that made them open their eyes against darkness. Their screams, another’s, the world’s—sound fused and warped, undistinguished. It was pain. Everything was pain. The cell door hissed open, and the light made them cringe.

A silhouetted figure stood framed in brightness, blood dripping from twin sabers. A warlord, robed in death.

Li Sin pushed themself to their knees; each flex of muscle sent new pain through their body, but they would not face away. This was too welcome a release. They could not yet speak, not yet beg. So they waited, hoping their death would come quick.

Li Sin?

Vector’s voice. But that was impossible. Li Sin had watched Vector die. Over and over—

(Illusion? But the pain was so harsh, and they remembered Vector’s scream. How could it not be real, when their heart broke?)

The warlord stepped aside, and a new silhouette glided through the door, to Li Sin, and then cold hands touched their arms, a face—

Li Sin looked blankly at Vector’s pilot, a humanoid construct with no mouth and luminous eyes. Metallic skin, the ribbing of implants beneath, body made from tiny drones interlinked into a greater shape.

Li Sin flinched back, but the not-Vector held them, held them, held them—

I want to take you away from this place. Please come with me, my friend.

Li Sin shook, uncontrollable. They pressed their face against the construct’s chest—wanted to beg it to snap their neck, end this charade—but there were no words. There would never be any words.

Vector picked them up, cradling them with effortless strength, and turned towards the light.

The Hand of Dust and Shadow brought her trusted allies, Vector said, and came here to destroy everything.

Li Sin’s body shuddered.

I asked her to help me save you.

But why?

Li Sin could not look at the one carrying them. Their vision blurred. They could not find their voice—ripped out, desiccated—to ask Vector to leave them, to let the Hand of Dust and Shadow stop the pain from going on and on and on . . .

INTERLUDE — The Year 2977

Before their capture and imprisonment on Genesis Omega, Li Sin spent a month wandering among the Zhouderrian peoples. Zhouderrians were neuralnetted fungi who accepted willing lifeforms upon maturity from the Mothervines, and became multi-bodied individuals.

There is something I wish to show you, Vector says as they launch from Zhouderria’s atmosphere.

Li Sin’s lips are still warm with the taste of eons-old memory and the buzz of the builders so long ago, when they visited the great monasteries built by ancient hymenoptera masons.

They laugh. “More wonders, my friend?”

Vector’s engines hum as the ship glides effortlessly through blue subspace waves. I dreamed, and in this dream . . . Hesitation. My pilot wrote the coordinates against the sky.

Li Sin’s mirth fades. They know how much Vector grieves the loss of its pilot and crew. “Where are we going?”

A world with no name. A world that has not felt the touch of gods.

The planet is small, gray sands and red rivers, flora rampant and wild and unclassified, with an atmosphere habitable to humans.

Vector splits its awareness and embeds itself into a mechanical crested dragon, fashioned from vibrant blue and red steel. The simulacrum is made from pieces of ship, tiny drones linked together. A forbidden practice, for ships are to have only one body. Vector no longer obeys the orders of the Principality.

Li Sin takes a shuttle down. Their first step onto the surface sends vibrant longing through their body—Li Sin’s lungs swell with the raw air, and it’s as if they have never breathed before now. Each taste is rich, whole, indescribable. They want to inhale forever. This world lives.

Li Sin tilts their head back to watch the sensuous clouds dance across the dusk-draped sky.

Vector rides on Li Sin’s shoulder, optics bright as it records everything around them. Li Sin crosses silken dunes and up a craggy outcropping of blue-hazed stone. They hear it then, over the hum of the winds: the rush and crash of a waterfall.

As they crest the high cliff, Li Sin’s breath stalls in their throat.

The Fall of Voices, Vector says, awed. The dragon slides down as Li Sin kneels in wonder. Droplets of sound collect along Vector’s hide.

The waterfall is vast, spreading out in a shallow curve for half a mile, tumbling down into a great chasm. There is no river above to feed into it—the falls begin and end like an illusion, perpetual and ever changing.

The Fall of Voices spills down crystalline and mineral fragments, a vast net that shimmers under the red moon. They flinch at the overwhelming power resounding in the falls. It makes them think of the Xytast Tempo: the point at which music transcends physical medium and enters the universe’s consciousness, rippling through dimensional time and space.

Li Sin, can you hear them?

There are countless songs interwoven into billions of transcendent melodies—carried by the voices from inside time and outside space, voices lost and voices unremembered, voices small and voices ancient, voices unspoken and voices silenced, all the voices of the universe tumbling through this rift in matter and atmosphere, spilling into the fabric of existence and shading dreams through the great dark expanses of galaxies.

Li Sin is swept along in the multitude, in the pure energy of music and language and emotion—they have no body, no anchor point. Only the shattering beauty of the universe’s infinite souls.

STASIS (AFTER SILENCE) — The Year 2980

Vector trusts no world-bound physicians to treat Li Sin after Genesis Omega, not yet, so in the cargo hold, Li Sin strains against the medicuffs holding them against the bed.

Time is unmade, a sweltering cloud of opiates and remembered terror.

Beside Vector’s hologram stands Gerarr, the Hand of Dust and Shadow, harbinger and healer.

Can you save them? Vector asks.

“Only if they want,” Gerarr says.

Time has no beginning and no end, but in between, Gerarr stays. He tends to Li Sin’s injuries, as precisely as he murdered everyone else in Genesis Omega. His voice is gentle, measured, and he does not long let Li Sin drift in silence.

“Why?” Lin Sin asks. “Why help me?”

“I care for you,” Gerarr says. “We can all be more than destruction, love.”

When Li Sin wakes in panic, Gerarr’s voice rumbles in soothing, familiar melodies. He sings to them like a ship, old lullabies, ballads, songs from distant worlds. And in the music, Li Sin can tell reality from nightmare.

Gerarr sits beside them, not touching them unless in emergency, and then with apology. “I need to return to my homeworld soon, love.”

Li Sin wraps their arms around their knees, shivering despite the warmth of the ship.

“Come with me,” Gerarr murmurs, a hand extended. “I can keep you safe.”

“No. No one can.”

The thought alone makes them flinch. It is the same terrified reaction when they consider joining Gerarr in familiar melodies—if they tried to sing, to write, to create, they are certain their mind would break from pain.

“Li Sin, may I touch you?”

Li Sin wants to send Gerarr away. They deserve to be alone.

But they nod, because it’s cold and if the last thing they feel is Gerarr’s hand, it will be a memory to keep them warm when they find a way to fall.

Gerarr strokes the back of their neck, then gently pulls them against his chest.

“Why don’t you let me go?” What use are they, broken like this? Wounds scar over, but the pain never fades. “I don’t deserve to stay.”

“Yes, you do, Li Sin. Will you come with me?”

“No,” Li Sin says, even though they want to agree. Terror clings like bloody razors to their insides. If they go with Gerarr, they will only bring him pain. That is all they are capable of, anymore. “Not now. Not yet.”

Gerarr kisses the top of their head—hair shorn to stubble—and strokes their shoulders. “Visit, at least, when you feel you can, love.”

Let me sing to you, Vector says, when Gerarr is gone.

“You told me it hurts.”

Vector’s hologram inclines its head. Yes. I was not made to have a voice. But for you, my friend, I will try.

Vector’s voice is uneven, hesitant. Pain laces through the melody and cracks the words. It is a quiet song, and every note vibrates with loss.

The shipsong is brutality and beauty, bitter conquest and grief. It is Vector’s story, Vector’s self: a warship whose family was taken, whose purpose was only to destroy. A ship who craved to exist, to fly free, to see the wonders of the universe. A ship who was ravaged by its maker, and cast down to die in a cold wasteland, alone.

And yet, in the last few notes, there is hope.

AFTER SILENCE — The Year 2984

In the dream, Li Sin stands in a crater on Cormorant Sigma. Their legs are covered to the thigh in heat-warped glass and shattered metal, blackened bones and crumbled stone. On every reflective shard they see themself reflected—memories spread in mosaic like endless constellations in the sky. Laughter, tears, passion, wonder, fury.

There are voices far away. Li Sin knows, as one does in dreams, that the other voices are being pulled back into the Falls, to dance and sing again with the rest of the universe.

Li Sin clasps their hands, pleading. “All I have ever brought is grief and death to those around me.” Their birthship, and Ascending Dawn, and their family on Cormorant Sigma. “How can I ever atone?”

Creation from destruction, whisper the souls of poets past.

Li Sin sinks deeper into the ruins.

All we have left to give is a word, the voices tell them. Will you keep it?

“Yes.”

Sing, child of grief. Sing.

• • • •

In the last fold of subspace, Li Sin kneels in their quarters and shuts their eyes. They can’t sleep. But they remember their dreams.

Vector glides through coordinates mapped in delicate webs through void and into the blue subspace waves, veins of the universe rippling through the vast bodies of galaxies. The aquatic ripple of radiation and memory drift against the ship’s skin. Schools of dustrays and great eel-ships once wound through nebulae and ancient clouds expelled from the long-fled cephalopods. Now, this close to Cormorant Sigma, there is nothing left.

“I will sing for you,” Li Sin whispers. For all those who came before, and who will come again. For the lost and the oppressed. For the silenced.

They believe the voices will witness them and Vector, whether in victory or in death.

• • • •

Li Sin sits in Vector’s cockpit, working with vicious speed, letting the words they have not dared touch in years spool out and drench their tablet page like arterial blood. It is all their rage and grief and dreams and passion. Worst of all, their hope: the memory of Gerarr’s voice, his words so long ago—I want you to live—that have haunted Li Sin.

It hurts. Every syllable, each thought, wrapped in pain. It is not a pain that will ever heal, nor will it dim. They know this. What the sorcerer did, no one can heal. But Li Sin will endure. They write now for Vector, in honor of its loyalty and loss and unflinching fortitude.

Li Sin’s wrist aches and their fingers grow numb on the stylus, but they do not slow down. This is their purpose—to write, to speak, to lift their voice against silence.

Their death will not be empty.

Vector’s pilot hologram materializes beside Li Sin. You write again, my friend?

They are pulling out their heart and veins to write their legacy, to honor Vector’s pilot and all the ships and everyone who died without need—it is never enough. But it is a beginning.

“When it’s done, I will sing it to the Gray Sun, and then we will flee. I will not see you die.” Not again, not like in Genesis Omega.

Li Sin takes a breath, listening to their heartbeat, to Vector’s engines.

“I do this . . . we do this . . . because it brings hope. Let everyone witness. We will plant ideas, seeds of a future others can build. We won’t be shackled to the cruelty of gods forever, in fear—they can kill us, but they can’t excise our memory, not if we do not give up our voices. We won’t be silent. Will you help me, my friend?”

Yes, Vector says. I will.

• • • •

Li Sin, Vector asks when Li Sin pauses in their work, will you let me publish your poetry?

Li Sin blinks, nonplussed. “I deleted it all.” After Genesis Omega, they were too afraid to even store backups. “I have nothing left.”

Well, Vector says with an edge of embarrassment, I may have read your drafts and kept copies. I apologize for the theft. I wanted to know what you were working on.

Li Sin wavers between startled laughter and concern. “No one else has seen those drafts, I trust?”

I am not that rude. I like your poetry. It makes me think there is more to our existences than violence and war. It made me think of my family. If it can give others purpose, it is not a waste.

The ship opens a holo-file on the screen for Li Sin to peruse.

It is three volumes of their collected poems, arranged in oscillating patterns of new and old, rage and joy, satire and somber. Li Sin pages through the file: the font and textual flow modifies with each poem. It is more than Li Sin ever expected to see.

Despite the tightness in their chest, they smile. “You wrote an introduction?”

It seemed only proper, Vector says. Do you like it?

Li Sin’s eyes sting as they read: loving, honest, unflinching words. The introduction, split over three volumes, shares facets of Li Sin’s life, their pain and triumphs, and their intended course at time of (requested) publication. They are portrayed with purpose, with respect, with affection. Ships cannot be dishonest.

“Yes,” Li Sin whispers. “Dedicate it to Gerarr.” They have never felt so honored, so whole. It is a legacy of more than just anger, one they are glad to leave in their wake. “Publish it. Thank you.”

• • • •

Vector drops from subspace into the ruins of the Arora Nebula. Li Sin stares at the debris clouds, spreading between the ruins of two moons. Their throat tightens. Cormorant Sigma: a graveyard orbiting a dying star. Li Sin presses their fingers against the viewscreen.

One moon remains, the Shrike’s Eye. Its surface is as desolate as the planet; the mining colonies once established are dust, crushed memories of the dead. Li Sin shuts their eyes. They do not want to hear the screams again, ghost or imagined.

We can go no closer, Vector says.

Li Sin keeps their palm against the ship’s side. “I know.”

They breathe deep and remember. They are here for all the lost. For Vector, for themself.

Li Sin wears a skin-tight atmospheric suit made from voidsilk. It was a gift from a former lover born on Tadier; the odor of cinnamon and ash still lingers along the collar. It has always given them strength; they need all the scraps of courage they can weave together to hold themself steady in the face of the Gray Sun.

Li Sin nods and Vector opens a broadcast.

And angels explode from folded subspace and descend on the ship.

A swarm of synthorganic insectoid beings conscripted into worship, angels live in the fringes of knownspace. They live in vacuum and can devour ships in minutes. The Suns have not summoned angels in millennia.

Li Sin never imagined them a threat.

The angels envelop Vector: Each being has twelve clawed legs, dozens of wings, and is covered in multifaceted eyes. The eyes are filled with teeth.

Vector screams as the angels burrow through engine shields and worm into its body. Vector’s console goes dark. The pilot hologram flickers once, hands outstretched in silent plea. Help me!

Then that too is gone.

Li Sin throws themself into the pilot’s chair. They sink their hands into the unused control gloves. Useless. The chair’s neural interface has never been brought online.

Vector’s signal distorts into pain in Li Sin’s mind as it is stripped of autonomous function, its voice ripped out.

—the sorcerer’s ghosthand in their throat—

The ship keels, propulsion and systems disabled. Li Sin clings to the chair as artificial gravity flickers. “Vector!”

The grinding, chewing screech of angels fills Li Sin’s head. They press their hands over their ears as the sound overwhelms them.

Li Sin’s body shakes. “Vector?”

The ship is silent. There is no familiar presence in their neural link, a shared connection they have relied on most of their life.

“Vector!” Li Sin screams. This is their fault—

SILENCE.

It is not Vector’s voice: The command is distant, an impression more than sound.

The will of the Gray Sun.

As suddenly as they came, the angels peel free from the ship. The swarm dissipates into the debris clouds.

Li Sin’s thoughts spin. Sharp, raw with loss. They cannot comprehend Vector’s death. Not again. Not this way—torn apart from within, remolded by a god who had taken everything once already.

The Gray Sun’s signal resonates through Li Sin’s whole body, transmitted through Vector’s systems.

THE SHIP WILL SERVE UNTIL ETERNITY.

Engines reboot and shields revive. The ship that is no longer Vector glides forward, cold and dark. There is no life behind the systems.

Li Sin stares unblinking at the viewscreen as the Shrike’s Eye comes ever closer. The Gray Sun is distant, standing as a bright and silent monolith. Like all of the Seven Suns, the Gray is armored and humanoid in shape, condensed into bearable composition and understanding. The Gray Sun has always stood alone, commanding worship from afar; destroying those who defied it from a distance.

Before Li Sin can slide to their feet, restraint cords whip from the pilot chair and snag their wrists. They gasp in pain as they are yanked backwards by the arms, bound at waist and throat and ankles.

Panic spikes in Li Sin’s chest.

“Vector,” Li Sin says. “Vector, let me go.”

Traitors to the Principality will be unmade, the ship says, and Li Sin does not recognize Vector in that text.

They strain against the synthsteel cords. Li Sin cannot free themself. They are helpless. No no no no—

Li Sin thought they could face death, skirted so often, but not like this—not delivered to execution by their closest friend. “Vector, please don’t—”

The cords around their wrists tighten, hard and fast, and bone cracks. Li Sin screams. Pain blurs their vision.

It will be silent, the ship texts.

Li Sin bites their tongue, tasting blood. Each breath shifts their broken wrists and spikes pain up their arms. They lock their jaw, trying to stifle any further outcry.

Drones cluster and take shape again: the bipedal form that was once a pilot. Mouthless, silent. The ship sails onward. A journey of ages and seconds, time warped in perspective. On the viewscreen, Li Sin sees the radiant beacon that is the Gray Sun Lord.

Li Sin trembles, clinging to the poem they carved bloody and raw from themself, but without a ship’s broadcast, any words Li Sin voices will be swallowed in the Gray Sun’s aura. Unremembered. And what good will one voice do against the infinite cold of space and the will of a god?

The ship slides into a holding pattern over the moon. Bonds withdraw into the chair. Li Sin’s heart pounds. They clench their jaw, teeth aching. The pilot-construct flicks the collar of Li Sin’s suit, and the helmet unfurls from around their shoulders and fastens in place.

The pilot-construct drags Li Sin from the cockpit, carrying them so like Vector did once, but this is wrong—

(—they were being dragged into the sterile, glass-walled chamber on Genesis Omega again, stripped naked, muzzled with nanite-threaded cloth so they couldn’t beg—they knew what would happen, they knew—Vector was going to die again—stop please stop—Li Sin had no voice—)

There is the buffet of air pressure as the cargo bay doors open. Li Sin startles, wrenched from memory as their captor drops with them down towards the moon’s surface.

“Vector?” Li Sin whispers. “Can you hear me?”

The pilot-construct makes no response. It carries them across thick carpets of dust, the buried bones of mining colonies, toward where the god waits.

STOP.

The pilot-construct presses Li Sin to their knees—halfway to the Gray Sun. Li Sin’s mask automatically adjusts to the radiance, shielding their eyes.

Maker, Vector texts. Here is the one that has defied you.

The ship hovers above the Gray Sun, a shadow highlighted by silver. Silent and so cold.

The Gray Sun lifts a hand. YOU WERE NOT TO BRING IT HERE. DESTROY IT.

Li Sin holds fast to Vector’s song as an echo in their heart, born-memory of a melody that has always been. A song they longed to hear again and never had the courage to ask for. All ships have a song, for all ships have souls.

This is not finished.

The pilot-construct’s form shivers and it wraps a hand around Li Sin’s helmet where it protects their jaw.

If one voice is all they have, then it is a voice the Gray Sun will hear.

Gray Sun, listen.
Listen to the blood
that beats in my veins,
beneath scars, scabs,
a thousand almost-losses of the will
to go on, yet still singing.
A billion hearts across all spacetime
beat with mine, undaunted by pain.
As long as anything lives or moves,
the song of the grasses will rise:
the song of blue-leaf trees in the wind,
of insect-feet, of gliding wings.
Even if you cut out my throat,
Gray Sun, my breath will hiss.
My blood will flow.
God of silence, you have not silenced me.

The pilot-construct’s hands drop to Li Sin’s upper arms.

You will be silent, the pilot-construct texts.

Li Sin screams as their bones are shattered. Above, the ship seems to shudder. Through the blinding pain, Li Sin continues.

Hear the sound
of the universe, Gray Sun:
the wind across a barren moon,
the waves of a methane sea. Light itself
carries sound through vacuum on its back,
rising and falling like breath
in a sensor-dish ear.
The hiss of solar flares,
the terrible scream
of a supernova: I carry these sounds
in my blood, Gray Sun.
I bring them to you.
God of silence, you have not silenced me.

STOP.

The pilot-construct flings Li Sin onto their back. They choke on a cry as shattered bone jostles and their vision doubles. Why are they still alive? The pilot-construct could have murdered them so easily.

Gasping, Li Sin forces their breath between aching teeth.

I have traveled your domain, Gray Sun,
seen valleys and forests
and oceans of life.
The screams of the wounded,
the cries of lovers,
the grunt of the dockworker carrying salvage.
The star-dolphins sing, the squid sing
in blackness, innumerable birds
raise their voices. On not one living world,
in not one living place, is there silence.
I bring you the jewel-bright
clamor of life:
God of silence, you have not silenced me.

SILENCE.

The pilot-construct crushes Li Sin’s right knee.

Darkness flickers in their eyes.

They will not die silent and empty.

You dwell in the dark, Gray Sun,
in the empty places: but see,
even in the void between galaxies
there remains a hiss,
to the smallest ears:
the roiling of the quantum foam.
Even after heat-death, when the—

Even after—
God of—

God of silence—

Vector, Li Sin sends through their shorting neural link, through pain, help me.

Li Sin’s consciousness crackles at the edges. They dig through agony to find specks of joy mined over their lifetime. There is sorrow and despair and fear, but they cannot let it drown the good they have known. There must be more than darkness in the universe—they have seen and experienced wonders.

The Fall of Voices, watching the sunrise with Gerarr, the vistas of the universe unfolded along Vector’s viewscreen. They have known love and passion and serenity, yet they have so rarely allowed themself to accept it.

There will always be more than darkness.

The pilot-construct seizes their throat again with both hands, each curl of finger against their suit slow and deliberate, and Li Sin knows there will be no relent.

With all their heart, they sing. Creation is pain and joy, blood and light.

And Vector joins them with its shipsong:

I found you in darkness
Heart-soul, lost
Kin now
No longer alone

Old-remembered pain
Unforgotten, burrowed deep
But room again to whisper “stay”
And live again
For tomorrow becomes
Today with time.

Li Sin’s heart seems to beat again. Vector’s voice echoes and reflects their own, broadcasting their words and their unified song through the stars. The pilot-construct lets go of them, then stands fierce between their body and the god.

The Gray Sun is cracking, splitting apart like blood-soaked paper in the wind.

God of silence, you have not silenced us.
God of the end, you will not end us.
For every silence ends; into every stillness
comes roaring and crashing again
the cacophony of life.
God of silence, the world sings,
has sung, will sing again,
into infinity beyond time.

The pilot-construct breaks itself into a flexible mesh that wraps about Li Sin like a shield.

Ports slide open along Vector’s sides and plasma fire rains down on the disintegrating god. You will not unmake my family again, Vector roars. You will take no more from us!

Li Sin feels heat, and the drones map and cluster to deflect the worst of the splitting Sun’s radiance.

Sudden darkness collapses inward where the Gray Sun once stood, and it is gone.

BEGINNING

The universe is never silent.

Li Sin is aboard the ship, and Vector’s hologram appears beside them as tiny drones pull back their suit, inject them with opiates, and splint their broken bones.

I let my former god into my awareness, Vector says. I remembered what it was like, subject to an unfeeling will, made into nothing. But there are pieces of myself that no god will ever claim again. I fought as long as I could to resist obedience, to give you time. You give me purpose, my friend. I cannot forget that, even under the will of a god.

“I . . . didn’t know . . . you had . . .”

Modifications? I am a warship, Vector says. I felt naked without.

Li Sin’s anger is burned cold. Yet there is a strange calm wrapped about them now. Not peace. Not yet. Perhaps it is too great a price to ask.

“What do we do?” Li Sin whispers.

Other gods will hunt them. One does not unmake a Sun Lord without consequence. They know they will not see Gerarr again. In another life, perhaps. In another time.

There are other universes. We can find a way to live.

“Can we?”

In time, Li Sin. Will try again, with me?

Li Sin listens to Vector’s engines, like a second heartbeat, echo beneath the ship’s song. And they believe Vector’s words.

“I will.”

©2018 by A. Merc Rustad & Ada Hoffmann. | Art © 2018 by Reiko Murakami.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

A. Merc Rustad is a queer non-binary writer who lives in Minnesota and is a 2016 Nebula Awards finalist. Their stories have appeared in Lightspeed, Fireside, Apex, Uncanny, Shimmer, Cicada, and other fine venues. You can find Merc on Twitter @Merc_Rustad, Patreon, or their website. Their debut short story collection, So You Want To Be A Robot, came out from Lethe Press in May 2017.

Ada Hoffmann is the author of dozens of speculative short stories and poems, and of the collection Monsters in My Mind. She spends her day-job time programming computers to write poetry, and her Autistic Book Party review series is devoted to autism representation in speculative fiction. You can find her online at ada-hoffmann.com, on Twitter at @xasymptote, or support her at www.patreon.com/ada_hoffmann.

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

Tie Goes to the Runner

Russell Nichols | 4110 words

1

The alien came to play ball. Or so I thought.

It didn’t say so outright. Not exactly. Couldn’t speak English far as we could tell. But every day that summer, it would meet us there at the sandlot. The thing would come and stand behind the dugout, which was a rusty old hope chest Willie stole from his big sister. It would stand out there, the alien, not moving or nothing. Just observing, if that’s even the right word. Then one hot afternoon, for whatever reason, the alien stopped observing.

2

We swore we’d never tell a soul about this encounter. Figured keeping our traps shut would keep our mothers safe. So we didn’t tell our parents, not our teachers, nobody knew except the nine of us there at the sandlot.

For us, back then, the sandlot wasn’t just a whole lot of weeds and stones and dust. It was older than dirt, and since God made dirt, that slice of land was our scoop of heaven. Thought we’d be there forever. Every day playing ball as the sun kept its eye on us. Playing ball till our shadows got stretched, taffy-like. It was our space, our safe haven, rocks and all. And like my boy Roy the Righteous One used to say: “It ain’t a real diamond without the rough.”

In our world, we made our own rules: If you hit a homer on your first ups, you got a penny from everybody (you were lucky); if you knocked the empty Coke bottle off the cement wall in deep right field, you got an extra run and a dime from everybody (nobody got that lucky); if you struck out three times in one day, you had to ask out Nurse Paige (we usually let that one slide). But the most important rule was about timing.

The torn squares of cardboard we used for bases were hard to make out in the dust. So when it came to making crucial calls, they all turned to me with the same quizzical look: Safe or out? I was second baseman, but also umpire because I had the best eyesight of the bunch. Whatever’s better than 20/20, that’s what I had. Nothing got past me. I could tell in that split second whether the runner tapped the base before or after the baseman caught the ball. It was always one or the other. I didn’t believe in ties. But at the same time, I didn’t believe in aliens either.

3

Only one of us could say we saw this thing coming.

That would be Gort. His real name was Buddy Fowler III, but we called him Gort after the robot in that movie. Gort was a year older than the rest of us. Moved here from D.C. when his old man got transferred for some “top secret job” Gort couldn’t talk about. What he did talk about was how we were all in danger. He was 110 percent convinced that aliens were real and that humans going out in space was against the rules. He said the aliens had plans to stop President Kennedy from putting a man on the moon.

None of us believed Gort. Especially after learning he lied about making out with Angela, that sophomore chick with the hazel eyes and good hair. But we played along for kicks.

“What kind of plans, Gort?” we’d ask him.

“I can’t say,” he would whisper, “but they’re out to get us, man.”

“Get us how?”

He said: “Just trust me on this. We ain’t safe here.”

That first time the alien showed up at the sandlot, Gort went nuts. Not because he was scared, but we had bet him twenty-five cents a pop aliens didn’t exist. Two bucks gave him the right to scream like a girl. The rest of us had no voices to speak of.

We didn’t call off the game because we had a streak going. But the “delay” lasted a good chunk of the day. We stood there watching it watching us. Not sure what move to make. If any. Gort was shaking his head, muttering to himself:

“There’s no way out, there’s no way out.”

I tried to keep cool as an ice cream truck. It didn’t seem like the thing was a threat, but I can’t lie: Everything Gort had been saying over the years came rushing in. I remembered him talking about how only a chosen few would be spared—those who knew the secret hand signal.

“Of course I know it,” Gort said one night during a camp out while swatting at mosquitoes. “But if I told you, they’d scratch my name off the safe list.”

4

The alien didn’t look like an alien was supposed to look. It wasn’t green or red or blue. It was a weird color we didn’t have a word for. No taller than we were. No shiny suit either. Just its bare, grotesque body layered with sheets of gills or eyes or something else entirely.

5

By the end of the week, we’d gotten used to the alien observing us.

The anxiety wasn’t gone all the way. But it went down enough for us to go a whole game without somebody dropping a ball or screwing up a play due to the distraction. We had no idea what it was doing or thinking or learning, but we all knew one thing: We had us a fan.

And we put on airs, even though none of us would ever admit it. When the alien was watching, we’d swing that bat a little harder, dig our sneaks a little deeper, lob our snaps a little louder. We acted like the thing was an intergalactic scout, looking to recruit Homo sapiens for the biggest game in the universe. If the other guys weren’t thinking that, I sure was. Who wouldn’t want to be out there? That’s what I asked myself every night staring out my window at the stars. Every night when Pops would come staggering home, banging on the door hollering: “Let me in, let me in.”

Covers couldn’t keep out the noise, just like the lock couldn’t keep out my Pops. I kept wishing the alien would take me back to wherever it came from. Somewhere else, somewhere safe. That was my dream, my vision. And I had real good vision. But I couldn’t see far enough to stop what was about to happen.

6

It all went down on a late afternoon in July. Must’ve been mid-July, because I remember it was about a week after the church cookout we had on the Fourth. I think it was Tuesday, but who knows. What I do know is it was hot out there. Hot as the devil’s mama’s sauna. Hot as Nurse Paige in a white bikini, holding a thermometer, telling me to stick out my tongue. We almost ditched our daily game to go bust open a hydrant. But Bearded Larry’s old man got him a brand new bat. He wanted to break that baby in. We all knew good and well that a Louisville Slugger couldn’t save that cat’s batting average, but we went to the sandlot to keep the streak going.

Sweat turned our shirts different shades by the time we got there. Grime coated our faces like war paint. The wind had the day off, so we thought about swimming pools and lemonade to keep our blood from boiling over. The alien was there. Behind the hope chest as usual.

“Hope you all brought your pennies,” said Bearded Larry, taking a few practice swings. He stepped up to home plate, which was a dusty stack of placemats Willie stole from his mom. “I could use eight cents right about now. What do you guys think? Should I get a Firecracker Popsicle or—”

“Think fast!” said Don from the pitcher’s mound.

And he hurled the first pitch before Larry even got his feet set. The white ball whizzed by him and hit Roy the Righteous One’s catcher’s mitt with a smack. The rest of us were cracking up as Bearded Larry tried to protest:

“No, hold on. That’s a do-over. I wasn’t even ready, man.”

Turns out none of us were ready for what would happen next.

Gort noticed it first. He didn’t yell or nothing, but his words were loud enough for us all to hear and freeze up.

“It’s coming out.”

The alien was moving. Emerging from behind the dugout and coming toward us. It was one thing for the thing to observe from the sides, but coming out onto the field, see, that was a whole ’nother story. But we prepped for this. “Operation: Breakup,” we called it: If the alien ever stepped on the field, we were supposed to split up, each one of us running in a different direction. Then regroup at Gort’s house for Phase 2, which involved fake passports. But that plan fell apart. None of us moved a muscle. All we could do was watch.

As the alien moved, an outer layer—some kind of glass shell—began melting off. Like shedding skin or some shit. The thing got closer to home plate. Roy the Righteous One lifted his catcher’s mask, took a big step back. Bearded Larry gripped his new bat like the alien was a piñata full of popsicles.

“Uh, guys, there’s an alien on the field,” said Fat Frank a.k.a. PBP (Play-By-Play), the perceptive shortstop who smelled like bologna. “I’m not the only one who sees this, right?”

The alien stood there at home plate. Same as it had been doing over by the dugout, but now it was blocking the strike zone, holding up the game.

“Larry, tell your moms she’s holding up the game,” Willie called out from first base.

Bearded Larry didn’t answer. Probably didn’t even hear him, what with the alien being two feet from his bearded face. Then the alien let out a noise—like what it sounds like trying to talk underwater. I turned to Gort, but that cat was looking scared as all get out. I knew that “safe list” was a load of crap.

On the mound, Don said: “You think it’s trying to tell us something? Like—I don’t know—a signal or something.”

The gurgle came again, and Bearded Larry stepped back. “Did he just say ‘doo-doo eater.’“

“Doo-doo eater?” I asked.

“That’s what it sounded . . .” Bearded Larry stopped when the alien uttered another sound, a similar wobble, but a different pitch.

“Oh, I heard that one,” said Roy the Righteous One. “He definitely said ‘date me.’”

“Doo-doo eater date me!” PBP hollered and laughed so hard he cried.

“That’s not what it said,” said Gort and everybody looked at him.

“Oh yeah?” said Willie. “What’s he saying, then, since you’re so smart?”

“To your leader, take me.”

And we all cracked up at that. What a load of crap. Gort had definitely read too many pulps. Who knows what the alien was saying. All I knew was what I could see. I saw him standing there on home plate and figured that was as clear a signal as any.

And I said: “I think he wants to play.”

7

Everybody makes bad calls.

My Pops made one when he got hooked on the bottle. Ernie made one when he beat his boyfriend senseless to prove he really liked girls. I made a big one when I told Mary I didn’t need protection because I would pull out. At the time, in the heat of the moment, bad calls might seem like good ones, the right ones. But hindsight is diamond-like.

Of course, we had to learn that the hard way, in the real world, striking out consistently as husbands and fathers and rulers at large. Swinging, missing, swinging, hitting, running, going, going, gone. Strangers longing for acceptance away from home.

I saw what I saw that day. I said what I said. If I could go back and get a do-over, maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t, who knows. But I can’t help but wonder how our lives would’ve played out had I made a different call. Maybe that day wouldn’t have been our last day at the sandlot. And we wouldn’t have split up, without regrouping. Gort never would’ve lost his arms in ’Nam. Willie never would’ve gotten himself locked up. Roy the Righteous One never would’ve got on that smack. Everything changed in that split second. It was all good, then suddenly it wasn’t. But that’s how the game goes. The Righteous One said it best: “Life ain’t fair, so it must be foul, which means we’re all fucked.” Everybody runs. Nobody wins.

I say all this now at a safe distance from that last day. A good fifty years and 2,000 some-odd miles away. Damn if it don’t feel like yesterday, though. When I close my eyes, I still feel the heat. I smell the cowhide of my oiled-down, blackened-up eleven-inch glove. I taste the salt from my peach fuzzy upper lip. And I hear the guys, throwing their voices around the sandlot, wanting so bad to be heard.

8

“I wouldn’t give up that bat if I was you,” called Gort from right field.

“Yeah, you sure you wanna do that?” Willie chimed in from first.

Bearded Larry extended the bat. “If the alien really wanted to wipe out humanity, I don’t think he’d use a Louisville Slugger.”

“Guys, Larry’s giving him the bat,” said PBP.

“How you know it’s a him, PB?” shouted Ernie from left field. “It might be a girl.”

Leaning forward, Bearded Larry held the knob of the bat between with his fingers. The wooden bat dangled from his wobbly hand in the heavy windless air.

Willie laughed. “You trying to hypnotize the thing, man?”

The alien didn’t budge.

PBP stopped fanning himself with his cap. “Guys, he or she ain’t taking the bat.”

On the mound, Don shrugged. “Forget it, then. If it don’t wanna play, it ain’t got to play.”

Right then, a tentacle grew out of the alien and wrapped around the bat. Larry jumped back with a yelp as the thing held the bat up in the sun, studying it or something.

“This is a bad idea, man,” mumbled Gort. “You got to trust me on this.”

The alien scooted off the plate. It held the bat high in the air, straight up, at a ninety-degree angle.

“Damn, Larry. At least show the thing how to do it right,” said Ernie, flexing his biceps, pretending to swing a bat.

Bearded Larry said: “He’s holding it his way.”

I can’t lie. It didn’t look natural, not by a long shot. But who were we to judge a batter’s batting stance?

“All right you guys, the rookie’s ready to rock,” said Bearded Larry, stepping out the way and clapping. “And if he hits a homerun, this still counts as my ups.”

Off second base, I crouched low and punched the shallow pocket of my glove a few times. Gort hawked up a loogie. Roy the Righteous One pulled down his mask, squatted behind the plate. Don wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. Then shrugged and brought the ball to his chest to pitch. Off first, Willie started chanting, “Hey, batterbatterbatterbatter . . .”

9

That first pitch was low. Crazy low. Skidding off the dirt, past Roy the Righteous One and into the tangle of overgrowth behind the field.

The Righteous One pulled up his mask. “What was that, man?”

Don lifted his right hand. “I’m feeling the thing out, that’s all.”

The Righteous One went to retrieve the ball from the bushes. Tossed it back.

The next pitch was high, just inside.

The alien swung, but the timing was off. It hit a whole lot of air, but nothing else.

“Whoa!” said Willie, backing off from first. “He’s trying to knock it out the park.”

I stepped back, too. We all did actually. None of us would ever admit it, but we all wanted to be the one to catch the pop fly. We all wanted that stat. Among us guys, those bragging rights would be priceless. How many in this country can say they got an alien out?

On the mound, Don pulled the ball up to his chest. Adjusted his cap. Shook his head twice, then nodded like the Righteous One was giving him a signal, but the Righteous One wasn’t giving him no kind of signal, except: “Just throw the damn ball. My social security check’s coming soon.”

The alien did his wind up like the bat was a helicopter propeller.

Don fired a pitch that started inside, then curved out. The alien swung, a hair late, but nicked the bottom of the ball. We watched the white sphere fly up and come crashing back down, its fall broken up by outstretched gloveless branches. Foul.

Roy the Righteous One shook his head. He went to get the ball again. While he was back there sifting through thorny shrubs, the alien started acting real peculiar.

It stepped back from home plate. It held the bat in the dirt, then put its head—or what we guessed was a head—on the knob and started sliding its body, spinning around the bat. Spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning.

We stared, slack-jawed. We never did this around the alien, so where’d it pick this up? And why? Roy the Righteous One came back and he was like: “What on Earth?”

I looked at Gort, who didn’t say nothing, but kept looking around like he was expecting an invasion to commence. The alien was still spinning, kicking up a dust cloud. This must’ve went on for at least five minutes. Finally, when it stopped, it moved back to the plate and did its overhead wind-up again. Didn’t seem dizzy or nothing.

Roy the Righteous One tossed the ball to Don.

Don looked back at PBP. “What’s count?”

“One and two,” said PBP.

Don nodded. He kept a straight face, but I could tell on the inside that cat was smiling, Cheshire-like. He already knew the count. He always knew the count. He asked for our benefit. The rest of us hoped to be legends for catching the fly ball, but Don had his own plan for immortality: to be the boy who struck out the alien.

Right then, the alien stopped winding up and pointed toward the falling sun.

“What the hell’s he doing now?” said Willie, turning to Gort. “Is that the signal? He signaling the mothership?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Gort.

“I think he’s calling his shot,” I said.

“Man, get out of town,” said Ernie. “Like the Babe?”

PBP said: “Yeah, he’s pointing to the Coke.”

We all looked back to the wall in deep right field, a good 230 feet away from home plate. The empty Coke bottle was sitting up there like always, snatching splinters of fading sunlight.

“No way he’s hitting that,” said Willie, eyes wide with hope and doubt. “No way, man.”

Bearded Larry said: “But if he does, this still counts as my—”

“Think fast!”

Don launched that ball so fast, so hard, comet-like. None of us were ready. But, somehow, someway, the alien was.

In one quick motion, the thing brought the bat down and swung. There was a loud thwack that echoed across the whole field. The bat connected with the ball. The ball came blasting out of that batter’s box like a goddamn missile. A vicious line drive straight to right field. Fair.

The alien grew more tentacles. They all reached out at the same time. Slapped down into the dust like octopus arms. The thing dragged itself across the dirt toward first base.

Gort darted forward, full speed. Scooped the ball off the ground with his bare hand.

“Throw it! Throw it!” Willie hollered, stretching his lanky frame as far out as possible while keeping his toe on first.

At that moment, everything else around me blurred up. There was nothing else in the world. No heat. No sweat. No time. No threats of nuclear war. No drunk fathers. No bruised mothers. No lost boys searching for home outside of home. All that was gone. Nothing existed except Willie’s tawny mitt with the torn web and the tattered cardboard base.

Everything changed in that split second.

Seconds after my decision, Gort was scolding me. “What? Are you blind, man?”

He was rushing over to first base, where we all were gathering, except Roy the Righteous One who ran off to take a wiz. The rest of us were taking off our gloves, debating what just happened. Even though there was no debate. I made the call.

“I ain’t blind,” I said. “I saw what I saw.”

“No way,” said Willie. “You were looking dead at me. I got him out.”

Bearded Larry said: “You can’t argue with the ump.”

“Like hell we can’t if it’s a bad call,” said Ernie, puffing up.

The alien was standing on first base in the middle of us. Not moving at all. Still holding the bat with one of its tentacles. I doubted he knew what was going on. Gort snatched the bat from the alien and started pacing, pissed off. I could damn near see the smoke coming out his ears.

Willie said: “Look, either the ball beat the runner or it didn’t. I was there and I say it did.”

“Too bad nobody cares what you say, booger breath,” said Bearded Larry.

“Nobody cares about you, pubic face,” Willie fired back.

“Ask your big sis how I got this beard,” said Bearded Larry, rubbing his chin.

“She already told me you like to eat out your moms,” said Willie, pretending like he was munching an invisible cob of corn. “It’s snacky time.”

Before Bearded Larry could snap back, Roy the Righteous One came over, zipping up his fly and asking: “What’d I miss?”

PBP said: “Some people don’t care too much for the call.”

“What was the call?” asked the Righteous One.

“The wrong one,” said Willie.

“Safe or out?”

“The call was safe,” said Monte, the third baseman with a skin disorder.

“Shut up and go put on some steroid cream, Monte,” said Ernie. “You’re not even supposed to be out here.”

“If anything,” said Don, wiping his forehead, “and I’m not saying this is true, but from where I was standing, it looked like the ball and runner got there at the same time, which means he can’t be out because you’re only called out if you get beat.”

“You lost me,” said the Righteous One.

I said: “Tie goes to the runner.”

Gort pointed the bat at me. “That’s a bullshit rule and you know it.”

I slapped the bat away. “Get that fucking bat out my face, man.”

PBP said: “So is he safe or out?”

Gort glared at me. I glared back. His age didn’t scare me. His conspiracy theories didn’t scare me. Nothing scared me at that point, on the brink of our adolescent apocalypse.

I can’t remember who swung first. I want to say it wasn’t me, but who knows. I do know Gort threw his fist so hard into my jaw, I nearly fell over. It was pretty much all hell from there. Didn’t know who was on whose side. We were all out for ourselves. Nothing fair. We’d fought before, but never like this. Ain’t no coming back from this. And I remember wrestling in that sandlot, trying to rip that bat from Gort. But he had the better grip and he jabbed me in my gut. Then he got up, spit out a glob of blood and went to the alien, who’d been on first base the whole time, observing. Gort wound up, then swung the bat with all his might into the alien’s body.

The hit didn’t make a single sound, but small cracks spread out from the point of impact. They were there for only a second before a filmy substance oozed out from everywhere, hardening over everything. With all the chaos, nobody else caught that. Gort was above me, kicking me over and over, breaking one of my ribs. And in that split second before I got knocked out, I saw the alien running—running from the sandlot, his shadow stretched by the setting sun, going, going, gone.

©2016 by Russell Nichols. Originally published in Night Lights, edited by Paul Garver and Phillip Garver. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Russell Nichols is a speculative fiction writer, poet and endangered journalist. Raised in Richmond, CA, he writes about race and other man-made myths. His story about a black vampire on trial in Boston was included in the Best of Apex Magazine: Volume 1. His short science fiction play about police brutality will premiere at Houston’s Fade to Black festival. In 2011, he and his wife left the States to wander the world indefinitely, vagabonding from desert villages in India and the Himalayas to Panama and the Caribbean during hurricane season (current location: Puerto Rico). Look for him @russellnichols and russellnichols.com.

A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Lighthouse of Quvenle the Seer

Lina Rather | 1560 words

Your guidebook says: Do not ask which ships the lighthouse guides. It’s the same old joke everyone makes when they come, and the sisters who care for their prophetess Quvenle will not laugh. The other pilgrims will not laugh. You will not feel any less uncomfortable, and you’ll feel silly for selling your house and all the memories left inside to buy your passage. To reach the edge of known space, you have shed it all—your job, the house, everyone who knows your name. Everyone has doubts here at the end of the line.

The lighthouse is a needle nearly black, visible only because of the nearby binary star system. Its builders died long before humans walked out of the primordial sea, and they took their secrets with them. It transmits a radio pulse every eighteen minutes, in every direction, and no scholar or theologian has ever been able to explain how that works. If you are watching from the porthole of a docking ship right when a pulse goes out, you can see the point of the needle glow red. This is why it is called the lighthouse. It’s good luck for a pilgrim to see the light—stories say this means you’ll find what you came for.

You don’t know what you came for and it doesn’t matter, because you miss the light. You’re bent over your guidebook instead, trying to reason yourself out of this.

• • • •

When Quvenle the Seer was Quvenle the Explorer, she found the lighthouse. She has told no one what happened when she docked and entered, but she survived in the obsidian halls for four years and only emerged long after everyone had given her up for dead. The lighthouse has bestowed upon her and her alone the gift of sight.

Your first day, your guidebook says, you will encounter someone weeping.

You are sitting downstairs eating plain rice and fried banana with chopsticks. The lighthouse provides only for the seer, and so the sisters grow what they can in improvised hydroponics bays. After the food is served, a woman returns from the upstairs halls and sits beside you. She bursts into tears before her first bite.

You are eating your rice grain by grain to try to soothe the twisting pain in your chest that’s been there for two years, sixteen days, and eight hours (this count in your head never goes away) but you drop your chopsticks and put your arm around her. Her crying is the only sound in the entire hall and it’s profane. Her whole body shudders. Quake after quake after quake.

“I knew it,” she says. “She said I’d die of the same thing my mother did, no matter what I do to stop it. It’s coming soon.”

She presses her hands into her eyes and they leave red palm-prints on her cheeks. When she laughs, it’s the sound of a dam bursting. “I knew it, but no one believed me.”

You lower your arm. She digs into her banana, relishing in the contentment of surety.

• • • •

On the second day, your guidebook says, you will think about leaving.

You stand in the docking bay pressed up against the glassy wall in the shadow of an archway, as if will keep you and your lack of courage hidden, watching those who have already met the prophet board. One woman brought her child, an infant swaddled in dark blue cloth embroidered like the star-dotted emptiness right beyond the hatch. She holds him close and coos into his curling hair like he needs soothing, but he is startlingly, inhumanly quiet. You wonder if she ascended to the seer’s chamber with him, if Quvenle knelt close and whispered into his ears. What would a child who had heard the future before he could speak grow into? You never had children, but now you wonder what yours would have looked like, what you would have whispered to them to get them to sleep.

All at once, it’s too much. You turn away from the shuttle. One of the caretaker-sisters is watching in the hall and your eyes catch. She is silent, of course. Two days here and you have heard only one of them speak, and only when it was necessary. They smile painfully, like a storm breaking still water.

The sister holds her hand out towards the shuttle. An offering. Go home, if you like. You turn your face away.

This is not a test. The lighthouse holds no trials. There are no desert-crossings, no riddles, no sacrifices to be made. No three-headed monsters to fight, no prayers to speak, no weighing of hearts. No one is turned away.

When you watch the shuttle doors close, it still feels like a test. You could leave. You could go home, build a new life on the splintered remains of the old. You do not have to hear what Quvenle sees ahead for you.

When you watch the shuttle take off, thrusters glowing as blue as that sky that you remember like a dream now, something like old scar tissue or the last of your fears tears itself free. The sister is waiting for you, and you follow her back into the lighthouse.

• • • •

Quvenle cannot tell if your baby will have blue eyes. She can’t tell you how to earn your fortune or whether your mother’s marriage to a third husband will go well. She prophesizes only catastrophe—rare cancers, a child’s death, tragedies that split your life in two. Pilgrims come for reassurance, to know that their deepest fears are valid.

On the third day, you ascend. You turn over your offering: two chickens preserved cryogenically at great expense. Livestock can’t stand the lighthouse. Raised here, the chickens would go mad before their first laying. Cows refuse to stand and give milk like sour yogurt. Pilgrims bring animal protein, to be rationed out like sugar in wartime.

A sister walks you up the winding stairs to an open hatch. A sign instructs you to bend your knees and jump. For an instant gravity grabs for your feet and your stomach lurches, then its hold stretches, strains, and finally snaps. You float into the darkness where Quvenle waits cross-legged, drifting.

When you come close, she takes your hands and your frictionless spin stills. She touches your temples with her thumbs. Her hands are as cold as the blackglass walls of the lighthouse, as cold as the vacuum itself. This is not at all like being touched by a person, though it’s been a long time since you have sought anyone’s touch. For the first time, you shiver.

You hold your breath until her hands fall back into her lap. She turns one palm up on one thigh, and then the other. There’s no sound here. You can’t even hear the beat of your own heart.

“I see nothing. You will live a life of perfectly ordinary happiness.”

When you cry, your tears spin around you in dewdrops. Two years, nineteen days, and six hours ago, you would’ve found this beautiful. Now it reminds you of a hospital room, a phone call that nothing could be done, a grave, the ring on your necklace that matches the one on your hand. “Please. I must be dying.”

You’re only thirty-five. You have so much more unbearable time. Now you understand why you came. You wanted someone to tell you this would be over soon.

“Daughter.” She looks no older than you. Rumor is when she dies the sisters will take her thumbs and her eyes for reliquaries. After your wife died, you signed papers to have her corneas transplanted, to have her brain sliced microns thin and studied. No one will remember her name, though you wake up every morning with it in your mouth. “This is only pain. Not death.”

“Please.”

“You could choose to die.”

You shake your head.

“You see? Then you’ve chosen to live.” She squeezes your hands. Comfort rituals, muscle memory, half-forgotten. This comes from the still-human part of her and not the part of her that is the lighthouse, and that is why you start to believe it. “Go home. I’ve promised you an ordinary life. Find it.”

She releases you and you drift toward the hatch. When gravity takes hold again you fall flat on your back in the hall and lay there on the glistening stone while your body relearns mass and momentum. A different sister waits a polite distance away. When you stop shaking, she takes you to the cafeteria, where you cry silently into a bowl of rice and string beans just like you said you wouldn’t.

A new pilgrim watches you with wide eyes. He finds you later that night in the corridors and corners you between the bathrooms and your bed. He smells salty, like fear. Tomorrow, you know, he will linger in the docking bay while you climb onto the shuttle and choose his path. “Did you find what you wanted?”

“Yes,” you tell him, even though it might not be true. All you have is a return ticket to a place you weren’t sure you would ever want to see again and the possibility of an unknown future. One step out of the dark.

©2018 by Lina Rather.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lina Rather is a speculative fiction author from Michigan, now living in Washington, D.C. She wishes she could say she has a dog, but alas, she lives under the tyranny of landlords. When she isn’t writing, she likes to cook, go hiking, and collect terrible 90s comic books. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Shimmer, Flash Fiction Online, and Lightspeed. You can find more about her and her other stories on her website, linarather.wordpress.com. She also spends altogether too much time on Twitter as @LinaRather

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

Contractual Obligation

James L. Cambias | 3520 words

Blue Six and the rest of the grunts power up to battle-ready at T-minus fourteen hours. They don’t need much lead time before action; even if the squad’s fully shut down, it takes them less than ten minutes to get operational. No, the extra time isn’t for the grunts, it’s for the officer.

Captain Yamada’s in the fridge. He’s been in there since the space freighter left the last neutral station at L5, a hundred days ago. It takes three hours just to raise his body temperature to normal, another couple of hours for muscle stimulation. Releasing some fluids and taking in others. Cleaning off the outer layer. It’s not until T-minus seven hours that Yamada steps through the pressure membrane into the embrace of his armor.

In battle dress, the officer looks almost like one of the grunts. They’re a mixed bunch anyway. Blue One’s a superheavy class, two metric tons of armor and power plant wrapped around a hypervelocity rail gun and a thousand-round magazine. Blue Two and Three are standard heavies, armed with autofire grenade launchers and weighing in at just over three hundred kilos each. Four and Five are low-profile scuttlers, only fifty kilos, with caseless submachine guns and extra limbs tipped with multitools. Blue Six is a point-defense specialist, with twin lasers and an elaborate sensor suite—which also makes it the electronic-warfare unit and primary communications node by default. All the grunts share a single distributed intelligence, but at any given time, most of it’s running on processors inside Blue Six.

When he’s functional and suited up, Yamada runs through the list of mission parameters one last time. He toggles the rules of engagement settings from “WEAPONS FREE” to “HUMAN SAFE.”

That gets the squad’s attention. “That isn’t in the contract, Captain.”

“Which means I’m free to decide. I want to make this as bloodless as possible.”

“Yes, Captain.” The squad can do non-lethal. It means they can still shoot other robots, and that’s the important thing. If you have to rely on human troops, you’ve lost the battle.

Six hours out, the freighter’s eyes can see the target: Anfa Habitat. From the freighter’s angle, it looks like a dark flower against the Sun’s disk. Anfa Habitat is a giant sphere a kilometer across, with six big solar panels stretching out from the equator. The docking hub’s down at the “dark pole” of the sphere, with four docking tubes sticking out at right angles. Beyond the docking hub, a long boom stretches a hundred meters or so into the sphere’s shadow, with big radiator fins running down each side and the backup power reactor at the far end. Anfa orbits the Sun sixty degrees ahead of Venus, so the radiators are glowing bright infrared as they dump the habitat’s excess heat.

Anfa control takes over the freighter soon after—or at least Yamada allows them to think they have. The controllers inside Anfa do a good job. There’s a hard braking burn to shift the freighter from its transfer orbit to match vectors with the habitat, and then some short burns and rotations to line up with the docking tube. There’s no voice chatter from the controllers; according to the manifest, this is a load of humanitarian supplies.

Docking clamps thump together right at T-minus zero, and now it’s time to move. Yamada pops the external cargo hatch—not the one connected to the docking tube—and the whole squad goes out onto the hull, moving fast. Blue One takes up a position behind the hatch to provide covering fire; Six joins it to act as spotter. The other four surge forward along the outside of the docking tube, followed by Yamada.

Having the officer out on the front line is part of the plan, but the squad thinks it’s a bad idea. A battle’s no place for humans. The captain could keep his fragile biological butt parked back in the relative safety of the freighter and stay in the loop by telepresence. But this job requires some diplomacy, and faceless killing machines are still getting the hang of that.

Blue Six scans the battlespace and picks out possible targets. The biggest danger is Anfa’s main defense lasers, located at the tips of three of the solar panels. The lasers can vaporize one of the grunts with a single shot, which is why the squad is keeping the metal docking tube between themselves and the habitat. But Anfa might have free-flying drones with laser mirrors, so Six watches the sky for anything moving.

There! A small shape moving against the stars. It’s dark, which puts it in the shadow of the habitat. Close, then. The squad’s multiple eyes triangulate, and Blue One takes aim.

Yamada’s orders are clear: No combat of any kind until he gives the word. Don’t let the enemy know there’s a battle going on until it’s won. So Blue Six keeps watching the drone, pinging alerts at the officer to make sure he sees it, too.

More targets! Four maintenance drones come scuttling along the docking tube from the hub.

“Engage engage engage!” Yamada orders. “Damn.”

Before the captain has time to inhale again after speaking, Blue One hits the mirror drone with a chunk of depleted uranium going three kilometers per second, and Blue Two through Five each blow a maintenance bot to twinkling fragments. Six scans every surface in sight, looking for cameras and blinding them.

Now it’s time to get fast. While the debris clouds are still expanding, the squad sprints up the tube to the docking hub. The officer must be juicing his sluggish biological nervous system with something, because he’s only a second behind.

The maintenance drones came out of a hatch at the docking hub, where the four tubes meet. It’s a typical membrane, but an armored door is swinging shut as they reach it. Blue One grabs the edge of the aluminum door, and for three long seconds there’s a contest between the big bot and the motor in the door hinge, but sheer power wins out and the hatch jerks open again.

The team goes through the membrane faster than it can seal around them, and the habitat loses a couple of cubic meters of air before it regenerates. Six identifies and destroys more eyes on the inside walls. Two covers the hatch in case someone else comes at them from outside. The rest of the team launch themselves across the inside of the docking hub to secure the connection to the habitat.

Another metal hatch has already sealed off that direction, but that’s perfectly fine with the squad. If they can’t get into the main habitat, nothing can come out, either. One and Three cover that approach. Yamada and the two smallest team members head for the thick conduit that runs through the center of the docking hub, connecting the habitat to the radiator fin beyond. Four and Five remove the casing and expose the heavily insulated pipes inside. Two of the pipes are dazzlingly hot on infrared, even inside layers of fiberglass and foil.

Four and Five install the squad’s insurance policy: modest demolition charges, just powerful enough to sever the coolant lines. All the pipes get two, including the backups. Now if the officer says a particular command—or if his suit stops sending a particular code series to the bombs—they’ll go off, and Anfa Habitat won’t have any way to shed waste heat. Thirteen thousand people will slowly cook in the relentless fury of the Sun.

The squad has downloads of Anfa’s emergency plans. It’ll be a race between work drones and thermodynamics. The squad estimates at least ten percent of the human inhabitants will die, and there’s a small but non-trivial chance that all of them will.

The Anfa forces have assembled outside. A trio of drones dive in through the membrane at the same instant that a shaped charge turns the center of the steel hatch into a jet of molten metal that hits Blue Three right in the ammunition magazine. Some of the grenades in Three’s magazine cook off, blowing the bot apart.

For a moment the squad becomes a group of autonomous individuals while the group AI reconfigures itself. When it does, the squad can’t plan quite as far ahead and its guesses are a little less precise.

Blue One fires a hail of depleted uranium through the space where Three had been standing, shredding whatever’s on the other side of the hatch. Six blinds the drones coming in the other way, and Two finishes them off with sticky grenades.

Captain Yamada’s broadcasting on all the voice channels. “Anfa, I will destroy your cooling system if you don’t stand down at once!”

There’s a pause, and then a human voice comes over one of the channels. “All right. We’ll cease fire.”

“Understood,” says Yamada, though the squad’s still ready to slag anything that tries to get into the hub. “I’m a licensed contractor working for the Deimos Community. This is a legal military operation. All I want is one person. Give me Dr. Julius Wassel. I have orders to remove him from this habitat. He will not be harmed.”

There’s a pause of about a minute. “We can’t let you take Dr. Wassel against his will.”

“I’m not leaving without him.”

“Even if you do sabotage the radiator, you won’t get away from Anfa alive,” the other human points out.

“I’d rather end this with no loss of life at all,” says Yamada. “Give me Wassel, I’ll leave, and nobody gets hurt.”

“We can’t just hand him over,” says the voice. “Dr. Wassel is a citizen and a shareholder. He’s got rights.”

“How about you let me talk to him directly?”

There’s a long delay, and then a new voice comes on. “This is Julius Wassel speaking. Are you really prepared to commit mass murder?”

“I was hired to do a job, Dr. Wassel,” says Yamada. “I’m trying to use minimum force to get it done. This is a legal military operation. Would you rather my squad tried to fight through the habitat to find you? If you come along with me, I promise you will not be harmed.”

“Where do you plan to take me?”

“I can’t reveal that. But you’ll be treated extremely well. My employers think your research is very important, and they want to help you continue your work. I’m sure you’ll have more resources than you do here.”

“I came to Anfa to get away from all that,” says Wassel. “Both sides in this ridiculous war are repulsive to me. Ideological fanatics fighting amoral exploiters, with mercenaries doing the dirty work.”

“I’m just a contractor,” says Yamada. “Look, I know they’ve probably asked you to keep me talking while they fab up more weapons, so I’m afraid I have to cut this short. I’m starting a ten-minute timer on my bombs now. If Dr. Wassel comes down here before they go off, I’ll shut them off and leave in peace.”

The captain cuts the link and rearranges the squad. The two open hatches are sealed only by pressure membranes, and just about anything could punch through that. He puts Four and Five to work pulling up wall and floor panels to obstruct any line of sight through the hatches. Six watches the door into space, while the other two cover the link to the main habitat.

The timer ticks down to five minutes, then four, then three. The squad’s ability to predict human behavior is limited, but elementary game theory suggests that once the coolant lines are severed and the habitat’s temperature starts to rise, there’s absolutely nothing to prevent Anfa’s lasers from vaporizing the captain and the grunts. That’s a known risk.

The count’s at one minute forty seconds when there’s a knock on the partition blocking the hatchway into the main habitat. Yamada sends Four to have a peek. Two humans in skinsuits are floating just this side of the membrane.

“I only want Dr. Wassel,” says Yamada.

“Pando, it’s me. Gradara,” says one of the humans.

For a moment the officer’s bio readings go nuts, and the squad considers the possibility the enemy has managed to hit him with some kind of biochemical agent. But before the squad can shift into autonomous mode, he drops back within normal parameters.

“Come in, both of you,” says the captain. He halts the timer.

The squad lets them pass the partition, and Six looks inside both of them with backscatter X-rays and sound pulses. You can learn a lot about someone that way. Wassel’s a male human, with too much abdominal fat and an artificial pancreas. Gradara’s a female with unusual muscle density; all the bones in one leg plus a forearm and some ribs are carbon-fiber rebuilds. Her bio readings are a lot less elevated than Wassel’s.

“I thought you were dead,” says Yamada.

“I wanted a new start. There were people I didn’t want following me,” she says.

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here, Pando. I’m a shareholder and a citizen. Back when Earth and Deimos started this epic pissing contest, I decided to get as far away from the war zone as I could. Anfa looked like a good place. Low strategic value, underpopulated—or at least it was when I got here. Now we’ve got more people than the place was built to support. Thirteen thousand people will cook if you set off those charges.”

The officer is silent for nearly a second. Then, “What about you, Dr. Wassel? Are you ready to leave?”

“If I have no alternative,” says Wassel.

“See?” Captain Yamada tells the woman called Gradara. “He’s perfectly willing. Nobody has to get hurt.”

“I’ve got a counter-offer,” says Gradara. “Stay here. Anfa can buy out your contract.”

Yamada takes a couple of seconds to answer. “What would I do here? I’m a soldier.”

“There may be other raids. Obviously we need better defenses. You could help set them up.”

“Are you part of the deal?”

“No promises, Pando.”

Just then the space freighter’s antenna picks up a transmission and bounces it to the squad. The message is from Deimos, and the authentications check out. The group mind judges it significant and passes it along to the officer. Captain Yamada spends ten seconds reading it, and his bio readings go nuts again for a couple of seconds.

“KINETIC WARHEAD STRIKE ON YOUR POSITION TIME ON TARGET 1 HOUR.”

Evidently the owners back inside Deimos have decided to get serious. Maybe Wassel’s important enough to be worth denying to anyone else. Or maybe Anfa’s pissed them off some other way. It doesn’t affect the tactical situation, so the squad doesn’t waste any more time thinking about it.

Yamada seems very concerned, though. He asks the woman, “Does Anfa have any other spacecraft? Anything with interplanetary range?”

“We used to have a couple of interplanetary shuttles, but Earth grabbed one and blew up the other. Why?”

“I want you to come with me,” he says.

“And what will you blow up if I refuse?”

“No demands. I want you to come with me. When we were together, back on Luna—were you happy?”

“I was very happy,” she says. “But I was tired of being a gun for hire. I was ready to quit. And you weren’t.”

“You never said anything.”

“I didn’t need to. I could see it. You weren’t ready then, and look at you now: You’re a successful contractor—are you ready to give it up now? Shut down your squad, disarm the bombs and stay here?”

“No,” says Yamada. He switches to a private channel, but the squad can still hear his end over the command link.

“Can you fab up a hibernation chamber? You can ride in that.” Pause. “It’s not safe for you to stay here. I can’t tell you why.” Pause. “You need to leave now. Come with me.”

He switches back to the squad. “What’s the status on our vehicle? Can we make it to Deimos with an extra human on board?”

“No,” says the squad. “Mission profile is zero-margin. There’s only enough life support consumables to get you and Wassel to Deimos.”

“Can my suit keep me in stasis long enough to reach Deimos?”

“No. It’s more than seven months in transit. Your suit’s only rated for sixty hours.”

“What if we hook my suit up to the ship’s systems?”

“Daily failure probability tops fifty percent in less than a month.”

Yamada switches back to his private link with Gradara. “You need to get a hibernation chamber down here in half an hour, and enough consumables for seven months.” The squad can’t hear her answer, but Yamada’s stress levels rise even higher. “They must have one somewhere! In the hospital, maybe?”

Fifty minutes left.

Wassel speaks up again. “Captain Yamada, I’m not sure what’s going on. Would you rather take Ms. Gradara with you instead of me?”

“No! I have to get you to Deimos. That’s the mission. I’m sorry, Doctor, but you’re coming no matter what. I’m just trying to find a way to bring her as well.”

“Are you collecting Anfa shareholders?”

Yamada ignores him and switches back to the link with the squad. “Can the spacecraft reach any inhabited body or habitat with three humans aboard?”

After a moment’s calculation the squad replies, “Adding another hibernation unit increases the mass too much to reach Deimos. The best trajectory puts us at the Earth leading Trojan point. That requires a gravity assist from Venus and takes more than two years. Note that the leading Trojan habitats are hostile, and may not exist by the time we reach them. That would constitute a mission failure.”

“Is there any way we can get off this hab with three people?”

“Captain, that’s outside the mission parameters. You’re supposed to acquire Dr. Wassel and evacuate. Ms. Gradara isn’t part of the plan.”

“I’m not leaving Gradara here. Consider the plan amended.”

Captain Yamada’s stress levels are still rising. He talks to the woman again, and he forgets to encrypt the connection. “You’ve got to make them fab you a hibernation unit. We need it in—shit, less than forty-five minutes.”

“Pando, I’ve got a good life here. I don’t want to come with you.”

“You’ve got to come! This place is going to be a cloud of debris in less than an hour.”

That’s a breach of operational security, and Blue Six starts area jamming to keep Gradara and Wassel from communicating with anyone outside the docking hub.

“You can’t do that!” says Wassel.

“It’s not my decision. The kill vehicles are already inbound and I don’t have any way to stop them. I’m trying to get the three of us out of here alive. Do either of you have any ideas?”

Gradara isn’t saying anything. She’s trying to link up with the station network, but Six isn’t going to let that happen.

“Captain, you’re no longer following the mission plan. You’re showing signs of psychological incapacity,” the squad tells Yamada.

“I’m fine!” Yamada takes a deep breath and tells his armor to hit him with a dose of tranquilizer. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take these two humans back to the spacecraft and put them in the hibernation units. I’ll ride in my suit; I’ll take the risk of failure. Now let’s get going!”

The squad goes into action. The group AI invokes medical override and orders Yamada’s armor to knock him out with a sedative. Four and Five grab Wassel and head for the exit. Blue One covers them.

The officer is clearly not fit for command.

One decision left to make. Normally it would be simple, but there are conflicting orders involved, and the squad wants to comply with Yamada’s last instructions if possible. “Ms. Gradara, in your opinion, will Captain Yamada suffer any permanent psychological impairment as a result of your death?”

She looks right at Three, which is still covering her with a grenade launcher, then at Yamada floating unconscious in his armor. A couple of seconds go by before she answers. “Yes,” she says. “I don’t think he’ll get over it.” Her pulse and respiration are steady.

Three and Six escort her to the spacecraft and help her into the hibernation unit. They leave Yamada behind, floating unconscious in his armor. The squad dumps all of its memories into the spacecraft; then the bots shut down for good. Undocking is perfectly smooth, and nobody gets lasered. The spacecraft is a thousand kilometers away when the kill vehicles hit. Thirteen thousand bodies spill into vacuum.

A successful mission, under the terms of the contract.

Gradara’s a little muzzy from the hibernation drugs kicking in when she contacts the squad before going down for a seven-month nap. “Hey, you guys looking for a new officer? I used to be pretty good.”

“Are there any emotional or psychological issues which might impair your effectiveness?”

“No,” she says. “Not anymore.”

©2014 by James L. Cambias. Originally published in War Stories, edited by Jaym Gates and Andrew Liptak. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James L. Cambias’s first novel, A Darkling Sea, was published by Tor Books in 2014, followed by Corsair in 2015. His short stories have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Shimmer, Nature, and several anthologies. Mr. Cambias has written for Steve Jackson Games, Hero Games, and other game companies, and is a partner in Zygote Games. His most recent game title is Weird War I, from Pinnacle Entertainment Group. He blogs at www.jamescambias.com.

The Carpenter and the Beast of Teeth

Micah Dean Hicks | 3580 words

The carpenter was alone and living out of his truck. He had been out of work for a long time when he found an envelope in his post office box. The envelope was black and coarse as hair. Instead of a seam, it had a mouth. When the carpenter picked it up, the mouth bared iron teeth and told him that he was hired. It would be his job to go to old houses the bank owned, fix them up, and kill their monsters.

He held it carefully, keeping his fingers away from the rust-pitted teeth. The voice from the envelope made him feel cold. But he needed work, and the idea of making a run-down house beautiful, seeing new families move in and live their lives, seemed good to him. Maybe he’d find a place for himself, a home with a stove and bed and shower. He said yes. The envelope whispered an address.

That afternoon, he drove to a gray house with weathered paint crumbling off its wood. Tall grass ate the sidewalk. The windows were boarded up, the building washed in fading bands of graffiti. Everything looked dim, like it sat beneath water or smoke. The carpenter got out of his truck with his tool belt and flashlight. The walls were ripped open, the copper stolen. He headed down to the basement to see if there was still a fuse box. There, the carpenter met a group of fanged and furry things sitting together in the dark.

They were sizable, the monsters, about as big as a person. Hair covered their bodies, long and rag-mop gray, dusty and full of spider webs. Their feet and hands were broad with curling claws, and long teeth crossed their lips. There were monsters with eyestalks, with pseudopods instead of legs, with tentacles, wings, extra heads or arms or hands or eyes. It was his job to kill them. The bank’s envelope had been clear about that. He just wasn’t sure how to go about it.

“Are you monsters?” he asked.

“Are you?” they answered in their hoarse, monster-voices.

Every day, people did things they didn’t want to do, he told himself. People with jobs and houses and families, they did what they had to. This was the way the world worked. And after all, these were only monsters. He steeled himself and pulled a long screwdriver out of one pocket. The carpenter shoved it through a monster’s eye.

The monsters wailed and tore at the walls. Some ran at him with their maws open, but most scattered through the house. Panting and trying to explain that he was only doing his job, the carpenter chased them down with a roofing hatchet in one hand and a ball-peen hammer in the other. He smashed in monster faces until he broke the handles of his tools. He bludgeoned one to death with the flashlight, the beam winking on and off with every hit. The last monster fumbled with the window latch, and with nothing else handy, the carpenter wound his tape measure around its neck and strangled it.

When he was done, he had long scratches down his arms and across his chest, and the concrete floor of the basement was a pool of fur and blood. He sacked up the dismembered limbs of monsters along with broken boards, old sheetrock, and empty paint cans and left them out on the curb, the bags sharp and sloshing with sour bile. The carpenter wondered what the garbage men would think.

• • • •

More black envelopes came. They all had mouths, folds of cash clenched between their teeth. They spoke addresses, and the carpenter went to work. In the basement of every house, he found monsters sitting in the dark. Sometimes he walked in on them playing checkers or drinking soda. He shouted at them and waved his arms, trying to make himself big so they would run away. Some fought back, and the carpenter exterminated them with hammers and saws.

Afterward, he ordered pizza and showered in the houses he repaired, sleeping on the floors. At night, he listened for the sounds of monsters moving in the dark. He wondered if they had things to do, strange monster jobs like stealing pets or frightening children. Or if they had families, monster brothers and daughters. One of the black envelopes clapped its teeth together in the dark like a mousetrap snapping shut. The carpenter closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking about monsters and their lives.

• • • •

After he’d been working for a few weeks, he was sent to a crumbling brick house. The windows were covered in tinfoil. The carpenter tried the key that one of the envelopes had spat into his hand, but the door was locked from the inside with chains. The carpenter got bolt cutters and broke in.

Inside, he found a family of six, the parents on the couch and their four children sitting on the carpet. The house was in bad shape, but the family had repaired it: foam and caulk in the cracks, boards nailed up to patch holes in ceiling and floor. It was very clean, the carpenter noticed. From the kitchen, he could smell spaghetti sauce.

“Are you monsters?”

“Are you?” the mother asked.

The carpenter flinched. “You can’t stay here anymore.”

No one moved. The mother went into the kitchen and stirred the pot. The kids kept their eyes on the television. Their father stared at his feet, the socks gray and eaten with holes. A young girl walked up to the carpenter and asked him if he was hungry. She offered to make him a plate.

On the floor in the corner, a pile of black envelopes chattered their teeth. The bank was paying him. One way or another, this was a job he had to do.

The carpenter knocked the TV over, shattering the screen against the floor. He stormed into the kitchen and threw the pot of spaghetti against the wall. “I said, you have to go,” he told them, afraid of what he might have to do if they stayed.

The father stood and helped his children put on their shoes. The mother turned the pot back over, saving as much of the food as she could, and went outside. While the carpenter watched, the family packed things into their van. They wandered between piles of their belongings spread on the floor, trying to decide what they could live without. One of the children lingered in her room and hugged each of her stuffed animals individually before abandoning them. The family got in the van and drove away, the children looking back at the carpenter and their house through the back glass.

The carpenter sat down on the couch and stared at his shoes for a while. After a time, he heard voices. Monsters started coming up from the basement and looking around. When they saw him, they froze. “We saw people drive away,” a monster said. “This house is empty now, isn’t it? No harm in letting us have it.”

The carpenter charged them with the sharp triangle of his speed square raised in one fist, and the monsters scattered down into the basement. They forced themselves through a drainpipe and vanished. The carpenter stormed back upstairs and fell on the stuffed animal collection, ripping them to pieces. When he was done, he sat in the cotton stuffing littering the floor.

It took him two weeks to finish repairing and painting the house. While he finished the work, he slept in one of the beds the family had left behind. He used their soap when he showered. He ate cans of food out of their pantry. Being in the house made him feel sick, like he’d stolen someone else’s life. He hadn’t thought the job would be this way.

When he was done repairing the house and throwing away the family’s things, a “For Sale” sign appeared on the lawn. The carpenter locked the door and drove away, leaving it clean and empty of everything.

• • • •

The next envelope came, money in its mouth. It whispered an address. This house was badly damaged, the porch half-collapsed over the front door. Most of the windows were busted out, trash bags taped over them. The bags billowed in and out with the wind, like the old house was breathing.

Inside, the carpenter found the house full of children. They had blankets on the floors. Trash and broken toys were scattered everywhere. Their clothes were dirty, their hair hung in their faces, and their nails were long and yellow. They looked more like monsters than people.

“Go home,” the carpenter said. “You can’t play here anymore.”

“This is our home,” one of the kids told him.

The carpenter walked through the house to size it up. The water and power were shut off. When he went into the basement, something moved along the wall. He thought it might be a monster, but when he turned on his flashlight, it was only a cloud of roaches passing over the wall.

“There has to be somewhere better you can go,” he told the monstrous children.

“This is the safest place we have,” they said.

He took some of the money the bank had given him, dropped it on the floor, and went back to his truck.

The envelope rested on his dash, glossy in the sunlight.

“Is this what you hired me for?” the carpenter asked it. “Do you want me to kill children? Are they the same as monsters to you?”

The envelope only smiled its gray smile.

He couldn’t throw out the kids, so the carpenter drove around in his truck for a few days, wondering what to do. He checked his post office box, and every day a stack of envelopes came. Each time, they spoke the same address. On his passenger seat, a stack of them muttered in chorus.

He passed a leaning old house on the edge of the neighborhood. Curious, he called the courthouse and found that the bank owned this property, too. He parked and got out to take a look. The house was huge, sitting in the middle of a tree-covered lot. Between the trees leaned old gravestones with the names worn away. The house was four stories high with a reflecting pool skinned in green. The back end of the house was tilted, like it was sinking into the ground. The trees came right up to the windows. He imagined how it would look with the trees thinned, the grass cut, the headstones hauled away. Everything repaired and repainted. He looked in all the windows, finally satisfied that no one was living here. Surely one house was as good as another. He spent the last of his money ordering building supplies and gathered his tools. Piles of dark shit lay all over the forest, caking on the carpenter’s boots and breeding a fog of flies. There were going to be a lot of monsters in a place like this.

Inside, the house was lightless and smelled like mold. Wherever his flashlight beam crossed a wall, the blue shine of eyes winked in and out, crawling into holes they’d dug in the drywall and vanishing. The air in the house was hot and damp with monster breath. Their voices murmured a watery, Are you a monster? The words overlapped and echoed off the high ceilings.

Could he kill them all? It would take days. He imagined monster and stuffed animal and human limbs all mixed together, and the carpenter felt sick. Instead of venturing into the basement, he started by cleaning. When his lumber arrived, he patched rotten places in the floor. The monsters watched him from the dark.

He worked on the house for a week, sleeping on the floor in one of the old bedrooms. At night, he could hear monsters cavorting on the roof like a pride of cats. He dreamed of them, and in his dreams became familiar with every fanged and furry face. Maybe he could just let them have the basement. What need was there to kill them?

The doorbell rang. He’d only repaired it the day before. Covered in sawdust and dirt, the carpenter went to see who it was. From below, he heard monsters falling through the walls and piling into the basement in fear.

When he opened the door, a woman was waiting for him. Her long black hair reminded him of the envelopes. She was covered in small mouths. She had one on each shoulder, on each elbow, on each knee, and even had tiny mouths on each knuckle. Every mouth grinned with metal teeth, rust filling the crevices between them and leaking at the corners like drool.

The carpenter backed away from her, and the bank woman came inside. She walked through the house, studying the repairs he’d made.

“I didn’t think the bank would mind,” he said.

The woman turned to face him, and her body broke open in smiles. “Are you some kind of monster, too?” he asked.

She pressed him to the wall, her hundreds of teeth grazing his arms. “Are you?” she asked, her twenty voices blurring together like rain.

The carpenter didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to say, “I’m not a bad person,” or “I just want a job,” or “Please forgive me.” But he didn’t say those things. Instead he asked, “What does the bank need from me to make this right?”

Around the baseboards, blue eyes shined and words poured into the room. You should never have let her in, the monster voices said.

The woman pulled him close. Her body expanded and contracted as she breathed from twenty mouths. The carpenter dropped his flashlight. He thought of the girl hugging her stuffed animals and knew that he too was about to leave something behind.

She opened wide twenty mouths lined with twenty sets of iron teeth. She ripped twenty chunks of meat out of the carpenter’s body. He fell on the floor, and she left him there, her teeth locking together with rhythmic clicks, like the sound of a watch factory.

The carpenter lay in the light coming through the bay window, soaked through with his own blood. He knew that he would be dead in a few moments, but all he could think about was how this house wasn’t his. He didn’t even have a place to die. The bank woman left. Once she was gone, the monsters came for him.

“Will you eat me?” the carpenter wanted to ask, but he had lost the parts of himself he needed to ask questions.

Hard paws bore him up and carried him down to the basement.

“He’s broken,” a monster voice said.

“Yes,” said another. “But he’s made of the same stuff as everyone else. He’ll be easy to fix.”

• • • •

It was a long time before the carpenter could remember anything. He seemed to wake up and find himself running down the street at night in a line of monsters. They fanned out between buildings, staying low behind parked cars, and snatched pets out of yards and off window ledges. When a hairy monster with bat-ears and blood-shot eyes handed the carpenter a groaning cat, collar jingling and pissing itself in fear, the carpenter shoved it into his mouth and ate it like he was supposed to. Wiping his mouth with his new hands—one the flat blade of a saw and the other the smooth block of a hammer—the carpenter realized everything was very different now.

The cavity of his body was filled with crushed drywall and broken brick. Electrical wires wound through his limbs. His back was covered in shingles, making a peak along his spine. When he blinked his eyes, the carpenter could feel his eyelids sliding down over window glass. His toes ended in screwdriver tips. When he crouched on all fours and stayed very still, the carpenter felt like a house. A family of mice rooted in his chest, building their nest near his heart.

“Why did you help me?” he asked. “After everything I did?”

The monsters turned and waved for him to follow, into the dark on their monster errands.

• • • •

Each night, the monsters took the carpenter out and taught him how to be one of them. They set off car alarms all over town. They threw stones at windows and started dogs to barking. They climbed utility poles and slid their oversized jaws over blue streetlights. They sucked on the bulbs until the light died and their dark eyes crackled with electrical fire. They ran into yards and lay their paws on the sides of houses, feeling the wood grow black with mold under their touch.

The carpenter tried it, but his tool-hands were awkward. Whenever he pressed his body against a wall, he left behind a shadow of new white paint in the shape of a house. “I’m not a monster,” he said.

One of them patted the carpenter on the back. “You’re not a very good monster. But you’ll get the hang of it.”

• • • •

While tearing around the neighborhood at night, the monsters came upon a group of children sleeping in the woods. They were the same dirty bunch the carpenter had met before, finally driven out of their old house and living in the forest. The monsters held up their claws and compared them to the kids’ long, jagged fingernails.

“They’re like us,” one of the monsters said. “Let’s bring them home.”

On the way back to their old house, one of the kids kept staring at the carpenter. “Do I know you?” she asked.

He ducked his head under the overhang of shingles coming off his back, crossed his tool hands, and pretended not to hear.

That night, the kids lay down in a corner of the basement. The monsters gave the newcomers a fat, orange tabby to eat, but the kids only played with it. When day came and everyone slept, the carpenter rattled his heavy body around the house. The pile of building materials still sat in the yard, and he made trip after trip, reinforcing walls and strengthening floors, sweeping away trash.

One of the monsters came up and put a bear-like hand on the carpenter’s arm. “They’ll send someone to chase us away again. Best not get too attached.”

“No one came here for years before I did.” Whenever the carpenter spoke, sawdust and bent nails came falling out of his mouth. “Maybe they’ve forgotten this place.”

Night after night, the monsters went into town on their errands and brought back lumber and nails, stolen rolls of insulation, and new brass locks still in their packaging. The house straightened and squared. The floors and walls grew solid. The carpenter even repainted the outside, making it new and gleaming white.

The morning after he painted, the mailman came and dropped a letter onto the porch. It was hairy and black, its metal mouth repeating an address. It took the carpenter a moment to understand: The envelope wasn’t telling him to go somewhere; it was telling him that the bank was coming.

He buried the letter in the yard. Then he boarded up the windows and doors. He tried to make the house a fortress, but years of carpentry had taught him how much easier it was to destroy than preserve.

• • • •

The kids were wrestling with the monsters in the hallway when a knock came at the door.

“Time to go,” the monsters said.

“Shhh,” the carpenter said. “Wait for them to leave.”

The children, knowing when they were being run off, didn’t have to discuss it. They went to gather their things.

Outside, the woman from the bank walked around the house. She shook doorknobs and banged on the walls, looking for a way in. He could hear her twenty mouths gnashing, iron on iron.

Through a gap in the doorframe, the carpenter watched a stranger approach the house. It was a tall woman covered in dirt and drywall dust. She carried a sledgehammer over her shoulder. In her hand, she held a black envelope. The woman walked up to the door, her back straight and arms strong.

The carpenter shouted everything he needed to say out of his monster throat. “Don’t do this. It will change you. You’ll lose more than you think you have.”

The woman hesitated, but the bank lady was there, speaking with her legion of mouths. The two carpenters’ eyes met through the door crevice. He could tell that she was sorry, but he could also tell that she was here to do her job.

She raised her hammer in both hands and slammed it into the door. Its impact was heavy like an asteroid-crater, like a tectonic plate, like the word “extinction.”

The monsters and children pried at the boards covering the windows. They shouted for the carpenter to let them out, before the bank came to kill them all.

He pressed himself against the front door. When the hammer punched through, its head caved in the carpenter’s brick chest, and he felt mice die inside him like shattered lights. He spread his arms across the doorframe and stepped forward, making himself part of the wall. The woman raised her hammer again, and he waited to be brought to rubble.

©2016 by Micah Dean Hicks. Originally published in Territory. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Micah Dean Hicks’s debut novel Break the Bodies, Haunt the Bones is forthcoming in 2019 from John Joseph Adams Books. His story collection Electricity and Other Dreams—a book of dark fairy tales and bizarre fables—won the 2012 New American Fiction Prize. He won the 2014 Calvino Prize judged by Robert Coover, the 2016 Arts and Letters Prize judged by Kate Christensen, and the 2015 Wabash Prize judged by Kelly Link. His stories and essays have appeared in dozens of magazines ranging from The New York Times to The Kenyon Review. Hicks teaches creative writing at the University of Central Florida in Orlando. You can find him on Twitter at @MicahDeanHicks and on the web at micahdeanhicks.com.

The Quiltbag

Ashok K. Banker | 5120 words

Octavia was at the last gate when the alarm sounded. A small army of bristling weapons encircled her.

The bag shuddered in her grip, panic rippling through its weave.

She gripped it tighter, reassuring it.

It’s your hair, it sent tremulously. Told you to straighten it and bind it tight; they don’t like big black hair.

She squeezed it tight against her side: Hush, hush.

“Step aside, ma’am,” said a man in a grey uniform.

She took a step back from the gate and off to the right. The passenger behind her, a white man, avoided eye contact as she went by.

“Put down the bag, please, ma’am,” said another grey shirt.

She hesitated and saw them tense. “There’s nothing in it, your people already checked and scanned it back there.”

The circle closed in. She heard the white man sniff disapprovingly.

“We need you to put down the bag, ma’am. Right now.”

She sighed and with a final squeeze for reassurance, set the bag down. It was a relief to be free of it for even a second, even though it wasn’t heavy; the bag was never heavy; the relief came from relinquishing charge of it, even for a short while. There are burdens unseen that weigh more heavily than gravity could explain. The greys hustled her away in a precise cordon that moved with her like the undulating cell wall of a paravmecium.

The other passengers in the terminal watched out of the corners of their eyes, mostly disinterested except for the occasional dark face. Those followed her intently, some with expressions of concern, some openly suspicious, a few hostile. She made eye contact with another woman as black as she was, but much younger and with beautiful big hair reined in by a scrunchee. Scrunchee Sister mouthed Are you okay? and Octavia nodded once, smiling. Then they were going through light blue doors and down green corridors and up and down green stairways, then down and down again, and finally they ended up in a nondescript white concrete block of a room with shiny metal doors and thick walls. Some kind of reinforced containment chamber. If she or the contents of the bag went kaboom, this place was designed to contain the explosion and minimize civilian casualties. She had been in rooms like this before. They were old friends, she, the room, the bag. From the humming of her clothes, she knew the bag was close by, maybe twenty meters away, maybe less. On the other side of the wall most likely.

Then followed the same old, same old. People with guns gave way to people in suits, followed by people in better suits, and still better suits. Grey uniforms to black suits, to charcoal grey suits, to pinstripe dark blue suits with silver ties. She felt the vibrations of their fabrics even before they entered the room, knew from those vibes everything there was to know about the wearer.

“Is that your real name?”

“Where were you born?”

“Is this your first visit?”

“Have you any affiliations with any of these groups . . .”

Pointless, repetitive, inane questions that she knew were designed only to keep her off guard, trying to catch her out in a mistake, a misspoken word, an error of syntax. They were buying time while they ran their scans and analysis of the bag. It was the bag they were really interested in, it always was. They turned it inside out, ran UV lights over it, took swabs, plucked a loose thread with tweezers, bagged and tagged the samples, whisked them away to be analysed, scanned and re-scanned it with a variety of different gizmos, looking for something, anything to nail the big black woman with big black hair.

The bag studied them in turn, taking a few flakes of skin, sucking in a fallen eyelash, a loose hair, a fleck of saliva while one of the technicians bent over it, analysing DNA, reading genetic memories down to the mitochondrial level, tracing family trees, studying for inbred bias, bigotry, racism. Several of the analysts and even the suits traced their origins back to endemic bigots, a history of gay bashing, queer stomping, ace crushing, trans murdering White666necks, Sw@stik@zis, Vag1c1dals, and a whole alphanumeric soup of other hate groups.

The bag maintained a steady stream of downflow, recording more information than was necessary or even relevant, as always, but she used filters, little patches of soft porous fabrics, to sift through the dross and pick out the nuggets that mattered.

The bag had no filters to its intake, it had no way of making sense of the raw data, which made it nervous. She ran a quick algorithm to get a heads up on each new pair of arrivals. They were all the usual types. She had been here, heard it all, said it all before.

Sometime during the nth repetition of her life’s details—birthplace, parents, schooling, college, university, doctoral thesis, apartment, cats, internship, job—she felt the inner linings of her clothes starting to feel scratchy and chaffing, like flannel on a humid summer day. When even the shawl’s silky softness began to feel like sandpaper against her neck, she responded. She raised her arms as if to adjust the shawl and pressed the silk fabric firmly between her thumbs and forefingers, squeezing it tightly as she sent admonishments to the bag. The itchiness disappeared at once.

Relax, she told the bag, I got this.

It fussed a little, but subsided. She could almost imagine it pouting like a person. Don’t anthropomorphize it, she told herself, you spoil it too much as it is.

The steel door opened and the first of the big guns trooped in. She knew them at once from their bespoke suits and the tailoring of their inseams. They were DHS, Department of Homesystem Security. Sixth Planet, mostly.

It was like being on an episode of that ’Streem show about Intercourt lawyers, all of whom dressed like Earthplan models, and saved entire worlds and galactic populations by posing ludicrous but splashy arguments at the Special Sessions InterCourt. She could even pass for one of the typical clients they represented, perhaps the President of an African AmeriGalactic system that had been attacked by Segregationists.

Except she wasn’t dressed in a flamboyant AAG ethnic costume or face-decorated with a dozen wooden and metal Seg cult piercings: She was boringly dressed in her Wednesday finest—faded old black jeans and her old black and white University of Genquoviol sweatshirt that still smelled of catfood. The only thing they had let her keep, apart from the clothes, was her shawl. That was nice because the temperature setting was always icy in these rooms. She readjusted the shawl, draping it over her shoulders and around her neck and placed her hands on the steel desk, ready. The bag, of course, was not in the room with her. As the interrogations progressed, she felt and heard the bag, even through the triple-reinforced concrete walls. It sent off increasingly restless vibrations that rippled through her clothes, making her want to slap her sleeve or thigh to admonish it.

Can we go now?

Enough, I want to go.

Please let’s just go.

Octavia, come on!

She lowered a hand beneath the desk and lightly but firmly slapped her own thigh. The pair of intense looking agents in the dark blue suits with the shiny silver ties stopped in mid-sentence and looked at her.

“Mosquito,” she said apologetically.

They frowned as if she had personally insulted the Interfederal government, then looked at each other. “Would you like some refreshments, ma’am?”

“I would. Thank you.”

They announced a brief pause to the proceedings—though she knew the ’Streem imprinting would continue uninterrupted for legal reasons. That was a precaution to avoid lawsuits later, for their protection, not hers. But it gave her protection too, legally. There would be no gel boarding or fingernail embedding while that video record continued. And if those tiny floating red dots ever stopped winking, she would know they were planning to get nasty. Not that it mattered either way: She had been in places like these where neither legal technicalities nor ’Streem imprintings had mattered.

A guard came in, a soldier with a buzz cut on top and back but one side shaven almost entirely. Octavia glanced at her and despite her thousand-yard stare, she saw kindness in those blue eyes. The soldier’s uniform was made of the standard bodyshrink fabric they all used, but when Octavia rubbed the end of her own scarf between the pads of her thumb and ring finger, sending a ping greeting, the woman’s uniform answered eagerly, almost excitedly. That often happened with fabrics in military installations that weren’t even aware of their own sentience until they were contacted for the first time. It was the same on all these worlds: Don’t Know, Can’t Tell was the term the military used for it. As if denying their sentience was enough.

How is she? Octavia asked, her scarf translating for her.

Really nice! The uniform answered. She’s very attracted to this other soldier, two bunks over, but she’s not sure if she should make the first move because she doesn’t know if she’s gay, too, or bi, or you know, what do they call the other ones?

Boring? she sent back, smiling.

“Ma’am?”

Octavia realised the soldier was waiting for an answer.

Nice meeting you, talk later. She closed the conversation by stroking the edge of her scarf gently, the universal gesture of greeting and farewell.

She asked for and was given a fruit beverage and a sandwich. The beverage was carbonated, not pulp juice, and the sandwich was smoked chicken on white bread not tandoori chicken on wheat, but she consumed what she was given without complaining. The bag felt her dissatisfaction and she felt her sleeve cuffs and collar tighten. She made herself think noncommittal thoughts until they relaxed a little. The longer they kept the bag apart from her, the higher its stress levels would rise. Telling them might worsen the situation: it usually did. But she had to try. It was the only way to belay what was otherwise inevitable.

She even made an effort to get the bag to sleep for a while.

It made grumbling vibrations, which caused her shawl to flap and ripple.

“Stop that,” she murmured aloud with as much sternness as it was possible to inflect into a murmur. It stopped sulkily.

The soldier by the door, the same gay one with the orange-red hair and brown eyes, didn’t react to her speaking, but Octavia sensed the woman’s uniform prickling with curiosity. It sensed the bag now and she hoped it didn’t make the soldier uncomfortable with its probing. She should have known better than to awaken a sleeper. She saw the soldier’s face frown and the woman reached down and scratched herself once, in the crotch.

Octavia shook her head, admonishing herself as much as the bag.

After lunch, a familiar face arrived. SAC Mirisch.

Not actually familiar; she didn’t know this precise Mirisch. But it was him, no question of it, neatly clipped silver-black hair, grey eyes. Still a handsome man, though a little worse for wear: He appeared to have had a run-in with a thorny obstruction in the recent past. There were tiny cuts and bruises on his face, neck and hands, and a white butterfly bandage on the left side of his throat. He also moved with a slight stiffness that favored his right leg and his left elbow seemed tender—he didn’t let it rest on the table’s edge, letting it hover—though the right one seemed fine. In pursuit of a Most Wanted suspect probably. Still, seeing him caused her to instinctively hold her breath; the scarf’s silky edges began to tingle and heat up, and she exhaled slowly, willing herself to relax. His eyes showed no recognition at all. Why would they? Despite her recognizing him, this was not the same Mirisch as the last time, or the time before, or any of the innumerable Mirisches she had encountered. If she had any doubt, the bag had none. The bag knew. The bag knew everything. The bag was starting to send her warning signals and she worried that it would panic.

Calm yourself, she told it, speaking through fingers rubbing the grain of her jeans, under her thigh, careful not to let the micro-movements show to the man seated before her. This is serious now. I need to concentrate.

When she glanced up, he was staring at her.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

She tilted her head slightly, pretending to give it serious thought. Answering too quickly always seemed suspicious; besides, she only had to speak the truth. “No, I don’t believe so.”

He examined her for another moment then dropped his eyes to his ’Streempad. “You have a familiar face.”

That was a polite way of saying all black people looked alike. She had heard it before, even from him a few times. Though they were each different, they were also the same, the Mirisches of these myriad worlds. Perhaps their suits sensed something from her clothes. Or from the bag itself. The bag did send out a very loud signal, like the loudest fire alarm of all time; impossible to ignore, provided you were also made of fabric.

This dude is the devil, Octavia. Look at the shit he’s done. Bag poured a millennium’s worth of raw data into her weave, a horrendous litany of unspeakable things this man’s ancestors had done to people they deemed “Other” or “Outsiders,” different in any way from themselves, deviants from a norm whose chalk lines kept shifting to accommodate their own blood or anyone they wanted to let in, banishing the rest to the hell of burning swastikazis, torture, rape, mutilation, race wars, genocide, incarceration, disenfranchisement, excommunication, eminent domain, every possible form of discrimination available even in the most scrupulously legal law-abiding of worlds, places and times. They found ways to “keep ’em down” that were devilishly brilliant, maddeningly difficult to combat.

When the feed vomited up other Octavias in other parallel worlds, suffering brutalities in places the equivalent of this white underground room, she decided she had had enough. She pinched the fabric of her jeans, pinching the tender skin of her inner thigh as well. I get the point, he’s the devil, now leave me be.

“May I ask what I’m being held for?” she said aloud, her voice calm.

He kept his eyes on the ’Streempad as he answered. “Why were you carrying an empty bag?”

See, I told you! He knows, Octavia!

Quiet. I’m handling this.

“It’s not.”

He looked up, a shadow of interest in his eyes. “What did you say?”

“The bag is not empty.”

He didn’t raise an eyebrow but even his expressionless face seemed to mock her. “There is nothing in it. No belongings, no possessions, nothing of utility or value.”

“Just so. The bag itself is my baggage.”

He set down the ’Streempad. “I see.”

“No, you don’t see at all, Agent Mirisch. That’s the problem. Your men stopped me for no reason other than that I was the wrong color, the wrong race, and the wrong gender identity.”

He set his hands on the table, fingers straight out without a hair’s gap between them, palms down. “What is your gender, Miss Reaper?”

“I’ve been asked that question a dozen times and I’ve answered it the same way each time. I’m genderfluid.”

He looked down at the space between his hands. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t conform to any gender.”

“You mean either gender,” he corrected.

“See, that’s your problem right there, young man. You say that with such assurance because you only acknowledge two genders. But there aren’t just two.”

“You are speaking of sexual identity?”

“I’m speaking about gender. A baby has a gender, but doesn’t have a sexual identity because a baby hasn’t developed sexuality yet. You are familiar with the difference, are you not?”

“Miss Reaper, it’s my duty to inform you that if you incriminate yourself in the course of this interrogation, you are liable to be charged for the claims made by you.”

At least he was calling it an interrogation, that was honest.

“I understand.”

“Do you admit that you do not accept a sexual identity?”

“My sexual identity is none of your damn business. I admitted only that I am genderfluid.”

“They are one and the same.”

“They most definitely are not.”

“It is my duty to inform you that sexual deviancy is a violation of the bylaws of this system as per our governing galaxy’s regulations.”

“What do you term sexual deviancy? A black woman carrying a bag through an interstellar way station?”

“In the interests of suitable genetic development required for optimisation of colonisation, certain races and groups are prohibited from indulging in intimate relations of any kind.”

“Yes, I know. You don’t want black, brown, yellow, or mixed-race people having sex, or anyone who doesn’t fit your whitebread middle system definition of good breeding stock. Quite a delightful world you have yourself here, Agent Mirisch.”

His ’Streempad scrolled several message updates. He glanced at them while continuing to address her. His hands stayed on the table. “That includes persons of any race or group who aggressively reject normal sexual identities.”

“There’s nothing ‘aggressive’ about refusing to be labelled by others. Genderfluid means I choose to identify with any and all genders in a non-binary manner, including but not limited to Asexuality. It is the most passive form of resistance possible. All we’re saying is leave us the fuck alone and let us live as we please. You’re the aggressive ones, coming into our houses and arresting us for having sex, refusing to let us marry, or cohabitate, or even share a simple hug or kiss!”

“All forms of physical intimacy between scheduled groups and races are prohibited by the bylaws—”

“Yes, I know. They also say that we’re only allowed to reproduce asexually through the use of State-controlled artificial insemination methods. And that any children we produce through these methods are to be raised as wards of the state until maturity or till the State deems them fit to live on their own. And for the rest of our natural lives, we have to live according to strict guidelines, with even the slightest infraction leading to confinement or, what did you call it, ‘intense scrutiny’? You tell us when to live, where to live, how to live, what we can and can’t do, and at no time can we touch another person, human or otherwise, or express our emotions physically, even through song, music, artistic performance, or creative expression. We live in the folds of society, there yet not there, like lint.”

His eyes had remained focused on his ’Streempad through her tirade, his hands still palms down. He seemed to barely be listening. He would have responded more if the Alsatianam he kept at home had wark-warked even once. She was less than a pet to him, barely human, not worthy of any emotional investment, even his contempt. “If you are finished with your outburst,” he said, “I am now ready to start listing the charges being filed against you today.”

She scratched the waistband of her trousers; it was too tight against her hip. “I don’t think you’re going to be charging anyone today or any other day, Mr. Mirisch.”

He looked up at her sharply for the first time, as if she had just earned his attention. “Are you threatening to use violence, Miss Reaper? That would be unwise.”

The guard moved closer to her, her weapon rising to point at the back of her head. The other guard also snapped to attention, speaking subvocally into his ’Streempiece.

“Not at all, Mr. Mirisch. I don’t believe in violence. I’m simply informing you of what you can and can’t do to me.”

He stared at her now as if it had suddenly occurred to him that she might be far worse than just a black woman with big hair and “deviant” sexuality; she might be crazy, too. “I have heard enough. It is my duty to inform you that you are now being placed under special scrutiny for terrorist threats made by you to a DHS Officer. Note the timestamp and the condition of the prisoner. Guards, take Miss Reaper into custody.”

She pinched the fabric of her scarf hard, rubbing the material between the pads of her fingers; it felt like grains of sand.

Now, Bag, now.

The bag sent up a whoop of such delight, Octavia could feel every item of clothing in the entire building respond, crackling with static electricity.

The guards were aiming their weapons at her as they moved in closer. Agent Mirisch had picked up his ’Streempad and risen to his feet. He stepped back from the table now, an expression of distaste on his handsome face. The deviant had shown her true colors as he had expected her to in the end. As far as he was concerned, his presumption of guilt had been confirmed by her angry outburst at having been presumed guilty in the first place: a perfectly circular false equivalency.

Now, his job done, she was to be taken to the “Scrutiny Department” where she would be studied and observed, questioned and re-questioned, deprived even further of any positive human connections, or the possibility of such connections, until she withered and shrank into an angry, frustrated, humiliated, desperate imitation of a human being. It was what he did for a living, putting away “deviants” like her, keeping his idyllic society pure and “normal.” It was a logical inheritance of a long legacy of race hatred, bigotry, and fear of the “Other.” At the end of the day, he would go home to his wife and children, bounce his baby on his lap, play a roughhouse game in the backyard with his son while his wife and daughter engaged in some suitably feminine pastime, enjoy a nice wholesome family meal together as they talked about their day, then later they would watch some ’Streem together where all the content was designed to inculcate good “normal” values, reinforce stereotypes, and demonstrate how obvious it was that only the right race, right group, right color was designed by God to govern the world, because, self-demonstrably, it was the most superior one of all.

But not today.

Today, Agent Mirisch’s afternoon was going to take a sudden sharp turn.

The guards were the first to see it. The female guard cried out and looked at her weapon. It was rippling and writhing in her hands as it changed molecular structure. In moments, its hard structure and shape had turned to diaphanous silk. The length of silk fabric hung from her hands. The other guard’s weapon had also turned to silk.

The furniture changed next, rippling as if an invisible wave were passing through it: It became a big swatch of denim that dropped to the floor.

The floor.

It shivered and turned to thick burlap; so did the walls and ceiling, drooping from all sides now as it began to lose shape and sag.

Agent Mirisch screamed.

The guards stared at him.

He dropped the ’Streempad. It fell to the burlap floor, its molecular structure altering in the time it took to fall, becoming a piece of flannel which undulated on the burlap floor.

He clawed at his face. “My eyes!” he howled.

His eyes had turned to raw cotton. It spilled out from his sockets, dangling like stalks. His internal organs changed next: his heart to coarse wool, his liver and spleen and kidneys to canvas. He screamed again as his blood slowed and hardened into apa goat-hair, his lungs to angora, his skin to batiste. He flopped to the ground in a heap of swatches.

The guards were transformed, too. She would have wanted to spare the woman guard, the one who had felt sympathetic toward her earlier, but the Bag couldn’t pick and choose. It was either all or nothing.

The rippling transformation continued, taking the entire building with everyone in it, then the whole station, and eventually, in a matter of minutes, the entire planet, the solar system, then the galaxy, then . . . you get the picture. It was a fire sale: Everything must go.

The process ended as it always did, with the bag in her hands again, this entire universe reduced to a variety of fabrics. The process of shrinking had proceeded alongside the transformation, and now everything was further reduced to a small swatch of cloth barely more than a few square inches in size. Octavia picked it up and looked at it: It was blueish tinged with red highlights. She dropped it in the bag. The bag absorbed it with a gulp, and it became a part of the patchwork quilted pattern, fitting in easily between a black square—a very violent universe where women were slaves and property, and a greyish green one—a world where people abused children for pleasure and ate animals for food instead of plants. The bag emitted a loud belch.

“Glutton!” she said, and snapped the bag shut.

It’s been a while since I ate. The last three worlds were tasty ones, but you wouldn’t let me even take a bite.

“They were good worlds. Well, maybe the third one had a lot of problems, but it was trying to fix itself. We don’t take good worlds, you know that.”

What about worlds that we think could go bad in a billion or two billion years? You know, like getting rid of it before it goes all the way rotten? Could I eat those at least?

“As long as there’s even the slightest chance that it can be redeemed, we don’t touch it. We just walk through and keep going. There’s enough worlds out there anyway. You’re never going to go hungry.”

It’s all very easy for you to say, the bag grumbled. You can eat anything in any world.

She patted the bag. It felt full and just a bit heavier. “Stop complaining. You’ll eat when you eat. Now, let’s move on.”

She reached up with one hand, took hold of the fabric of space-time and folded it back upon itself. A Vortal opened just large enough for her to step through. She went through and was met by a blinding white light that dazzled her dark-adapted eyes.

When she emerged on the other side, she was in a large bustling terminal of some sort. People were hustling and bustling in every direction. Outside the large glass windows of the tall building, vehicles were zipping and zooming to and fro.

My, but this is one busy world, she told the bag.

It feels cruel and unjust to me, the bag said. They use currency here. And they’ve done terrible things to a lot of their own kind, as well as other species. You should just let me eat it now.

Now, now, she said, calm yourself. Let me spend some time here, get to know them better, look around a bit. This is just one point in their history, we’ll have to move back and forth through the timeline, check the whole thing out. You know the drill.

Oh look, there’s another one like me!

She looked. There was indeed another bag, quite similar to her own. The swatches were different and the overall shape and size were quite unalike, too. But it was a quiltbag, too. It was carried by a young woman in a hat and a very nice dress. She liked that dress very much; the hat, too, actually. Octavia liked worlds where they wore hats. And she had never worn a dress like that. She would have to go into a store and get herself one.

Or I could just give you one right now, the bag said. And she felt her pantsuit starting to ripple.

She slapped her hip. You stop that now, you hear? Behave yourself. You know we don’t do that kind of thing in public! If I want a new outfit, I’ll go into a store and buy myself one. And before you ask, if they use currency here, I’ll get a job and work and earn some. We live by the rules of each world until and unless it’s marked for transformation, remember?

Spoilsport.

She smiled to herself. The bag could be such a spoiled child sometimes.

She patted it affectionately. Cheer up. Look. This is much better than the last one.

And it was: There were people hugging, kissing, even a pair of young women kissing by the Arrivals gate, a trolley piled high with suitcases beside them; there were older people hugging younger ones, children hugging each other, even a father hugging a baby and kissing him on the head. And they were all colors, races, genders, sexualities. Yes, this was a much more diverse, open, accepting, tolerant world than the last one. After doing what she did for as long as she’d been doing it, she’d come to form an impression of most worlds within a few minutes of arrival, and her instincts told her that this one was a good one, not perfect, not great, but good enough to let stand.

She gripped the bag’s handles firmly and began walking.

A white man walking beside her smiled and nodded as he passed. Nobody stared at her hair—or at least they didn’t scowl at it and look away—and the armed security guards didn’t watch her suspiciously as if waiting for the big black woman with big black hair to do something dangerous.

She saw the people exiting the terminal showing their identity documents to the officer on duty before passing through. She patted her pocket and when she reached in, a document identical to the ones they were carrying slipped out into her hand, the pictures and other insignia inside complying with all the requirements of this world.

The officer was a big bald black man. He took her document from her, flipped it open, glanced at the picture of Octavia inside, comparing it to her face, then checked the name and other details briefly, including the stamp. Everything was as it should be, of course. The bag did good work. He handed her passport back with a smile.

“Welcome to Los Angeles, Miss Reaper.”

©2018 by Ashok K. Banker.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ashok K. Banker is the pioneer of the speculative fiction genre in India. His ground-breaking internationally acclaimed eight-book Ramayana Series was the first trilogy and series ever published in India. It revolutionized Indian publishing, creating a genre which is now the biggest selling in the country. Ashok’s 52 books have all been bestsellers in India, as well as translated into 18 languages and sold in 58 countries. He has also been credited as the author of the first Indian science fiction, fantasy, horror, crime, and thriller stories and novels in English, creator and screenwriter of the first Indian TV series in English, the first Indian ebooks in English and other firsts. He is one of only a handful of living Indian authors represented in The Picador Book of New Indian Writing and the Vintage Anthology of Modern Indian Literature. Two new novels are due out in 2018: Upon a Burning Throne (John Joseph Adams Books) and Rise as One (Delacorte). He is of Irish-Portuguese-Sri Lankan-Indian parentage. Born in Mumbai where he lived for 51 years, he now lives in Los Angeles. He loves to correspond with readers and is very active on Twitter and Facebook.

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

The Diamond Girl

Courtney Bird | 6390 words

In your version of the story, the girl is a junkie. She is seventeen, standing on the side of the road with a garbage bag at her feet, and in the bag, she has a teddy bear and a box of Girl Scout cookies she stole from her niece. Her arm is outstretched, palm facing the sky. She’s hitchhiking but not with her thumb. It looks like she’s asking the sky for rain.

When a car pulls alongside her, it’s the mother’s boyfriend and he says, Hey, sugar. She begins to run. Wheatgrass is scratching her calves and the dryness of it sears her. She is aware of every blade. There is a feeling, spreading from the place just beneath her ribs, that she’s having a heart attack. It’s sharp and contained, blooming. It will eat her. She watches her feet as she runs. She wills them to fly. The veins between her toes look like they came from the soil.

He lies on top of her in the grass. He tangles his hands in her black hair and pulls.

In another version, the girl wants it. She has a gap between her front teeth, but people say it’s striking. When her mother’s in the bathroom, she bites the man’s ear. Crawls under the table and kisses him. If he doesn’t want her back, her heart will break. She can feel it breaking even then, with her head in his lap and his hands in her hair. And later, when he kisses her mother, he’s watching her over the mother’s shoulder. He has one green eye and one blue eye.

When the mother finds them in the shower, he calls the girl a witch and she tries to become one. She locks herself in the bedroom and wills the house to catch fire. The mother and boyfriend leave. They take the couch cushions and the pans. They take the shampoo and the toothpaste and the toilet paper. He’s closing the door behind them when the mother says wait. She takes the girl’s fish from his tank and puts him in the microwave. He pops like a balloon.

The mother’s boyfriend drives the first girl to a motel. She doesn’t know where she is, only that the carpet feels like soggy cereal below her feet and the face in the mirror is not familiar to her. The overhead light is strange. Her cheeks are hollowed out and she looks old. The mother’s boyfriend locks the door. He puts a gun down by the television and turns it on to block out the sounds that the girl makes. Crying sounds. Breathing sounds.

At first the diamonds look like chicken pox. Small red pustules erupting on the girl’s belly. She’s lying on the bed and the man is watching the sores grow. He touches them carefully. He kisses them. They make constellations on her skin and he traces them with his finger. Orion’s Belt. Andromeda. Virgo. His hand is cold and her eyes try to open, but the lids are too heavy. He takes the needle from the pillow by her head and places it on the bedside table. Lays down next to her and says they’re going to be okay.

The gap-toothed girl is lying in the bathtub at home. The house is empty. It smells like burnt fish. The diamonds are so sharp that all she needs to do is touch the skin and it breaks. She collects the stones in a soap dish. The bath water is pink with tiny cataclysms of blood.

Her body says there are a thousand ways to be crushed without dying. She thinks about putting clothes on for the first time in a month. She thinks about going down to the jewelers. She thinks that if her mother had known she could grow diamonds under her skin, she would have never left.

But in my story, the girl is only nine. Her name is Little Mina and her older sister’s name is Kate.

Kate picks up every worm on the road and throws it back into the wet grass. When the pond overflows, she collects the frogs and puts them in a box at the foot of her bed. Kate brushes her strawberry blonde hair every morning. Powders the freckles on her nose when a traveler stops for dinner. But Little Mina’s hair grows in mousy patches. It looks like it was glued on by a drunk. Their mother, who owns an inn, doesn’t like it when Little Mina interacts with the customers.

Little Mina tells Kate that she’s killing the worms, that the worms leave the grass because they’ll drown there. Kate laughs and calls her a know-it-all. She says that it must be hard for Little Mina, not knowing who her father is, and she means it. Kate’s father comes to see her every few weeks. He wears fur on his collar and his sword has a hilt that was dipped in gold.

He brings Kate chocolate. He gives the mother flour and wine and sugar. When he hunts, he brings them an entire deer.

He does not know about Little Mina. When he comes to the inn, the mother locks her in the cellar and tells her to hush. Little Mina draws faces on the walls. She draws maps and swans and a man with a single wing.

But after he leaves, Kate shares her chocolate with Little Mina. They take it to the river and watch fish jump from the water. They overturn rocks and look for salamanders. When Kate finds a turquoise one, she lets Little Mina name it. She wants Little Mina to have something of her own. One day, when she sees Little Mina with the hand mirror, pulling at her strange hair, Kate cuts some of her own and says, look, now we’re like twins.

When Kate dies—let’s call it scarlet fever—everyone wishes it had been Little Mina. They build a statue for Kate by the duck pond. At the ceremony, a little boy talks about the time Kate defended him from bullies. Another boy says Kate was his soulmate, a hero, a lady. Little Mina wears a thin black cape tied around her neck. She does not talk. The mother does not stand with her. Nobody sees her. Black is an absence.

From the edge of the woods, the witch watches her cry.

When your girl wakes up, her skin sticks to the motel’s bedspread. She is naked and bleeding and she thinks he might have killed her, but the cuts aren’t deep. Too bad. There is an open cigarette pack on the bedside table, and small, rough stones are spilling out the top. She holds one to her eye. A sliver of light sneaks through the closed blinds and splinters in the center of the stone. The face of it is an entire landscape. Blood curls in the canyons. She takes one and fits it into the empty sore between her breasts. My baby, she says. Her mouth is dry. Her swollen tongue sticks to the roof of it.

If only they were bigger. Long and sharp as a knife. The mother’s boyfriend is in the bathroom. She can hear the shower running. She can see steam coming from the open door. She wills her body to grow a diamond strong enough to kill him. She rolls onto her side and the sores hurt. Her right wrist is handcuffed to the bedpost. It wasn’t like that when she went to sleep.

She reaches for the man’s bag. There must be something left. Pills. Powder. Something sharp.

The statue of Kate is covered with snow. Snowdrifts grow from her shoulders. Little Mina rushes across the square without looking at it, she can’t look at it. She borrows a horse from one of her mother’s guests and rides to the witch’s house. The witch lives at the base of the mountain, where the forest starts in earnest. Her walls are made of living trees. The gaps between the branches are full of birds. The roof is a piece of sky she cut down and hammered onto the topmost branches. It took months to climb high enough and then she had to wait for a sunny day. She used her scalpel, and once she was finished, she folded it into a square small enough to fit in her purse.

In your story, the witch doesn’t have a roof made of sky. In your story, the witch is the woman at the gas station who sees the girl in the front seat, the girl too young to be so thin, too young to have her hair falling out, to have bruises on her neck, to be a junkie. Your witch pays and drives away. She nods at the mother’s boyfriend.

I’m being consumed by sores, Little Mina says. My mother won’t call the doctor because there is no money to pay him.

Your mother still owes me, the witch says.

The witch had been called in for Kate, too, but by then Kate was already dead. The mother shrieked and pulled her hair. Bring her back, she said. You’re the witch. Bring her back. But the witch said no one can bring back a dead girl.

I don’t want to die, Little Mina says.

She thinks of the way her sister’s room smelled at the end. The way Kate didn’t see any of them. Didn’t feel Little Mina’s hand in hers. Little Mina loved Kate. Kate was everything, and then she stopped breathing and everyone was alone.

We’ll figure something out, the witch says. Come in out of the cold.

Underneath the chilly blue sky roof, the witch takes her scalpel from the drawer and lays it next to the tweezers. Little Mina climbs onto the kitchen table and lays naked with her belly, her palms, to the sky. A few sprigs of dried lavender hang above her. The mother doesn’t know where Mina is. She doesn’t care. She is angry at Little Mina for wanting to live.

You’re younger than I expected, Little Mina said.

The witch warms her hands in the fireplace. Her skin is smooth and her hair is rich. Long looping braids wrap around her head like a dark and heavy halo. She is even more beautiful than Kate was.

Not every part of me is young, the witch says. She holds up her hands. Raised and ropey veins under mottled, elephantine skin. Short and swollen nail beds. And then she touches the sore on Little Mina’s hip. She presses gently and spreads the skin. She takes her scalpel and cuts. Takes her tweezers and pries. The harder she pulls, the harder the flesh holds onto the diamond. The diamond is precious to the flesh. It will not let go.

The first one’s the hardest, the witch says. She drops the diamond into a ceramic bowl by Mina’s feet. She presses her hands over the open skin and it heals. It is luminescent, like someone’s draped a piece of moon over it.

The gap-toothed girl takes the microwave and throws it into the dumpster. She buys a new microwave and a new fish with the money the jeweler gave her. Rough diamonds aren’t as valuable as cut diamonds, he said. Think of all the work I’ll have to put in. Do you know how hard it is to cut a diamond? But still, there’s a bit of money. Enough to buy a match and burn down the house. Enough to buy a truck and throw the microwave onto the floor of the passenger seat. Enough to get to New York City.

She changes her name so that her mother won’t find her. She calls herself Chloe. Sickle-shaped scars are littered across her skin, but she wears long sleeves and no one knows. She is giddy with the value of her body. She looks into the mirror in her new apartment and says, You are the most valuable girl in the entire fucking world.

The witch takes five diamonds as her fee. One is so small, it resembles a piece of fairy dust. She places it in a locket made of stellar ash, which she wears around her neck. She keeps other things in there, too, she says. A piece of hair from Joan of Arc. A fingernail from Merga Bien. An ear canal from a snake.

Who’s Merga Bien? Little Mina says.

The witch dabs lavender honey on the scars.

An old friend, she says.

The witch wraps a cheesecloth around a clear blue diamond with two stars inside. She places the diamond and the cheesecloth in a basket and gives them to her garden gnome. The gnome glares at Little Mina.

He mutters to himself, calls Mina the daughter of the devil.

I can give you a better life, the witch says. If you trust me.

And that sounds okay to Little Mina because she has wanted a better life for nine years. She wants to be loved. She wants a father. She wants a mother. She wants someone to be proud of her. She wants to be somebody like Kate.

Nothing in her says stop. Nothing in her says, This woman might want something from you in return.

So the witch sends her garden gnome to the castle with a letter and a basket. Standing at the window, they watch him walk into the woods, his footsteps small and deep in the snow.

When the prince arrives at the inn, Little Mina’s mother lays her only tablecloth on his table. She feeds him pancakes with blueberry butter and lemon zest and she asks if he is lost. The prince is handsome in the traditional way of princes. His hair makes an S across his forehead. He has thick eyebrows, the measure of a strong person, and a nose that’s already been broken by the hilt of a sword. He is engaged to marry a princess from the north, but he doesn’t much care for northerners and the king has said that whichever prince—and there are twelve—finds a solution to the kingdom’s debt will be the next king. I’m not saying that his intentions are impure. It is noble to save an unloved diamond girl from a life of sadness and it is noble to save a kingdom from bankruptcy.

If only Kate were still alive, the mother thinks. She was so beautiful! She could woo a prince.

Does Little Mina live here? the prince says.

The mother stares at him.

What do you want with her?

I want to marry her, he says.

But she’s only nine. She’s an ugly little child. She hasn’t even a last name.

I’ll wait. In five years, she’ll be fourteen. But in the meantime, I’ll bring her back to the castle. Let her stay with me and in time we’ll know each other.

The mother continues to stare.

I’m only sixteen, the prince says.

The mother goes to fetch her in a daze. She doesn’t know about the diamonds. Not yet. By the time Little Mina comes downstairs, there are two more princes in the dining room. One has a mustache with flecks of silver in it. He refuses to sit with his brothers. He paces in front of the fireplace. The band across his chest is decorated with twenty-seven engraved buttons. As the eldest, he shouldn’t have to fight for the crown. It should simply be his.

Little Mina underestimated the stature of princes. She stands in the doorway, holding on to the wall. She has brushed her mousy hair and pinched her cheeks. Her dress is made of milkweeds that the witch plucked and sewed together for just this occasion. It is so light. She thinks it might blow away if someone opens the door. It feels like wearing clouds.

You don’t have to choose now, the eldest says.

Of course not, says the first. You’ll want to pick well. No need to rush.

But do come with us, the youngest says. We’ve always wanted a sister.

He smiles shyly at her. A boy of eight. If he weren’t wearing a crown, he could be a baker’s son. Round, pleasant cheeks. Soft brown eyes.

On the way to the castle, Little Mina shows the youngest boy her scars. The diamonds rattle in a basket at her feet.

Is there such a thing faster than this carriage? she says. She is feverish with happiness. She’s never moved so fast in her life. She’s never left her village, except to wander the woods by the witch’s house. Through the window, she sees a river laden with white water, beautiful brick houses on either side. Someone in a fishing boat waves to them and she waves back.

Of course! he says. There’s such a thing as a galloping horse! There’s such a thing as a cheetah!

The other princes ride their own horses outside of the carriage. They don’t talk to Little Mina for the whole trip. But the youngest one won’t stop talking. He’s been waiting his whole life for someone who will listen to him. He tells her about the time he put red food coloring into the moat and everyone thought it was blood. She tells him about the time she put honey into her mother’s clogs.

As they’re entering the capital, she gives him a yellow diamond to keep.

Chloe sells her diamonds on 47th Street. For fun, she works as a waitress. She is pretty and her memory is good. The chef flirts with her. One night he tells her a secret. He says that he was born with webbed arms, but that the webs were cut right away. He says that he still has webbed toes. He slips off his shoe and runs the webs along her Achilles tendon.

I have a secret, too, she says. She pulls back her sleeve and shows him the half-moon scars on her forearm. Shows him the scars on her lower back. Shows him the new sores forming on her thigh. Chloe is consistent. Her diamonds don’t fail. They don’t refuse to grow. Because in this version of the story, science doesn’t matter. In this version, there is no such thing as truth.

How often does this happen? he says.

Regularly, she says. Whenever I see a homeless person sleeping on a grate. Whenever I see a girl crying on the subway. I take their sadness and I make it my own.

What about you? he says.

Ha! I grow diamonds! I bought my own apartment! I don’t have sadness.

In that version it might be true. In that version, gap-toothed Chloe might fuck the chef and steal his heartbreak—the chef had been divorced, the chef had lost his father. She might use him to wash away the stench of the mother’s boyfriend. She might become the international CEO of a company. Be on the cover of Vogue. Be celebrated by the entire country for her mutation. She might buy a brownstone and a white tiger and only wear spider silk. And one day, in a windowless hotel room in Reno, her mother will see her on TV and say to the boyfriend, don’t you wish you picked her.

The king treats Little Mina like a princess. She has everything she could want. To look at her, you’d never know the kingdom is nearly bankrupt. You’d never know two men lost their lives to bring her the baby unicorn. You’d never know how little the gardener is paid to bring her fresh flowers every morning. And it’s not necessarily the things that make Little Mina happy. Every day, people want to see her. When she walks onto her balcony, the townspeople wave and shout, Good afternoon, Diamond Girl! The princes ask what her favorite dessert is and then they make the chefs prepare it. At first, she doesn’t know how to respond. She says syrup and they laugh. Syrup is not a dessert. Chocolate soufflé is a dessert. Crème brûlée is a dessert. Lemon meringue is a dessert.

The mother comes to live in the capital and they treat her like an aunt. They support her, because she’s the mother of the diamond maker. She visits Little Mina every day. Dotes on her. She says, You are the most valuable little girl in the entire world. She brushes Little Mina’s hair like she used to brush Kate’s.

Months go by and Little Mina learns how to order white truffle cheesecake and blood orange fondue. The princes travel for weeks to get the truffles. There are trolls who guard the truffle fields and the princes pay them in gold. They order blood oranges from the other side of the world. Little Mina smiles to think of how much they love her. How they will do anything for her. They don’t complain. They say she is the best thing that’s ever happened to them.

For her twelfth birthday, she’s given a mirror made of silver and in it she looks beautiful. But as she carries it from the feast, everyone watches her go and they are all thinking the same thing: It’s been over two years and she hasn’t produced a single diamond.

The king turns the diamond ring on his finger. It came from her collarbone, years ago. It is the diamond that the witch sent.

Do you know how diamonds are made? he says to his wife.

They come from the earth, she says. She is not a stupid woman.

Bury coal deep within the earth. Heat it until it’s its own small sun. Squeeze it until there’s not a single breath left and then freeze it, he says.

The youngest son is listening. He has sewn the rough yellow stone that Mina gave him into the collar of his shirt. He touches the fabric and thinks of how she’s changed. Her skin is smoother now. Her jawline plumper. Just last night she asked him for a dress made of the sea. He shook his head sadly and said it was impossible.

In your version, the girl is dying. The man carries her over the threshold of their new house. He bought the house with money from her diamonds. He says he bought it for her, so that they can build a life together, but she can barely walk and the house is situated on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The driveway winds back and forth. She pushes against his chest. Her wrists are willow thin. She feels his arms around her like vines. They are choking her. She imagines herself in the jungle, wrapped in the arms of a tree, with a boa constrictor watching, waiting for her to wake up.

He goes out and comes back. He wakes her up at night, or he doesn’t. There are the twin pricks of the needle in her arms, her toes, the veins behind her knees, and of him pushing himself into her, breaking her sparrow hips. She feels them both like lightning. She stares at the cracks on the ceiling. Makes maps out of them. Finds a crack that leads all the way to the wall and follows it to the Arctic Circle, to anywhere she can be free. And every day he’s prying the stones from her skin, leaving her empty. She’s trapped inside her body and there’s no one there to tell. She tries to move her lips and the language that comes out isn’t hers.

She puts her hand in his hair and tries to pull back his head. He thinks it’s affectionate. He kisses the diamond below her belly button before he cuts. Outside, the sea makes sounds like a baby. In it, she hears someone drowning.

It doesn’t take long to realize that the diamonds have dried up, the same way ice cubes melt in warm water.

They move Little Mina to a cave above the sea—much like the house in your story. They call for the witch and her scalpel, so that she can cut the diamonds when they grow. They lock her away with Little Mina for the time being. Perhaps, years ago, the witch did something horrible. Perhaps the witch accidentally killed the princes’ baby sister when an experiment went wrong. When a single candle exploded with the life force of an army and blew apart the west wing of the castle, the wing where the nursery was. Perhaps that’s why she lived in a sky-roof house in the middle of nowhere with only a garden gnome for company when she could have been living in luxury. What I’m saying is, the witch had it coming.

They send the mother, too, because why should they continue to pay for her rent? And what use is the mother without the daughter? The girl is young. She needs a mother. They’re kind enough, at least, to know that.

There are two windows through which Little Mina can hear the swollen water and smell the salt. On the first day, she stands at the window and watches the water move. It puts her in mind of something haunted, as if the sea were a great basin containing everything that was already dead and everything still living. She is wearing silk the color of lilacs and an ermine shawl. It is softer, even, than the milkweed dress. If you’d ever worn a dress that soft, you would miss it, too. You would think about it every night.

The princes promised they would bring desserts. The youngest one said he would visit. He said he was sorry and embarrassed that things turned out the way that they did. He said he would try to find her a dress made of the sea.

They think it’s something to do with sadness, the mother says. So be sad. Think of your sister. Think of that orphanage that was burnt to the ground last week. There are so many things to be sad about. Why can’t you be sad in a palace? Why can’t you be sad when you are loved? You are a selfish little girl.

A diamond needs desperation to grow, the witch says. It needs to suffocate. In the castle, she could walk the grounds whenever she wanted. She had her choice of playmates. What more does a child need?

She would be more grieved without me, the mother says. If they want more diamonds, they should let me return to my business.

Your only business was being mother to the diamond maker.

The mother throws a stone from the floor of the cave into the water below. The splash is too small to see.

Little Mina turns to the witch. Why did you do it? Did you know it would turn out this way?

The witch rolls her eyes. People always think I know what will happen. You’re the diamond maker. I’m just the one with the scalpel.

When your girl dies—an overdose, a heart attack, a wish coming true—the man is beside himself. He pulls every diamond from the drawers and counts them. There are four hundred and seventy-six. But what will he do when the money runs out? What will he do now, with no one in the world to call his own? He is sweating, shaking, pacing the room from open window to open window. He can smell her there on the bed. He can smell the sea and it smells like she does. Like the belly of a ship. He takes her shoulders and shakes her. Throws her head down on the pillows. He scratches her skin with his fingernails but nothing comes out.

At night, he mutters to himself. He opens the kitchen drawer and fits the blade into the electric knife. He will get the diamonds. He cuts into her thigh, but the only thing he finds is blood and damp tissue. He looks everywhere. Blood leaks as he draws the blade through her shoulder. Pieces of bone fly and at first, he sees the white and thinks diamonds! But no. They’re only the dry, sad underthings of a human.

I believe you when you say that’s the way it happened. But in my story, no one has an electric knife. No one could look at another body and butcher it.

It only takes three weeks for the sores to come back. The mother and the witch are bickering every day, and the door to the cave locks from the outside. No one can leave. Well, the witch can leave. She can unbutton her skin and slither through the crack in the wall, but when she does, she looks bald and burnt, bare muscle and fat without skin to contain it. The skin puddles sadly on the floor of the cave until she comes back. Its eyes watch the mother.

The mother is going insane. She resents the other two. She can barely look at Little Mina. Tells Little Mina again and again that it should have been Kate who lived.

By the time Mina is fifteen, she’s a regular diamond mine. The youngest prince sends books, but he does not visit. Mina reads. She draws on the walls. She pretends to be Kate and that makes the mother happy. Most of the time, the mother believes her.

I had a daughter once, the witch says. I took branches from the ash near my house, a handful of snowberries, a calla lily—a couple of small things from around the living room, a clam shell, this old leather drum, a piece of rotten bread. A piece of coal. I buried the coal where her heart would be. And then I had a daughter.

What’s coal? the mother says.

It is something like a diamond, but black.

What happened to her? Little Mina says.

I put her in a basket and fed her to some wolves. But I meant well.

One night when the witch is wandering along the beach below them, the mother steals her skin. She pulls it on over one foot and then the other. She buttons it up from her left heel to the nape of her neck. She wraps the braids around her head. She tries to become the witch. She wants to disappear. When the witch gets back, the mother refuses to return it.

I don’t want to kill you, the witch says. But I will.

You don’t need it, the mother wails. It’s beautiful and young and you don’t need it.

Little Mina wishes that her mother would keep the skin on. She wishes her mother would turn into the witch. But in the end the mother gives the skin back. No one is happy, but everyone is alive.

In one version of my story, the youngest prince is engaged to a beautiful girl from the east. On the night before the wedding, he clasps a diamond necklace around her neck—a thin chain of diamonds with the big yellow diamond cut and polished at its center. They stand together in front of the silver mirror. She touches the diamond and sighs. He watches her eyelids flutter, the veins in them hungry and frail.

The next morning, he packs a bag. He pays the guard beside his door to keep quiet and then he flees. He takes a key with him and he rides all day until he reaches the sea. He climbs the long staircase, running two steps at a time. When he flings the door open, he sees Little Mina lying on her back with her breasts to the ceiling. She is naked and bleeding. The witch leans over her with a scalpel in her right hand. In her left, she holds tweezers. The girl is crying silently. In the corner, the mother babbles to herself. She says isn’t this always the way with children, they want and they want and when they get what they want, they’re bored. When they get the life they want, it’s just a façade. Because didn’t Little Mina want the diamonds? Didn’t she keep them a secret from the mother for all those months before the princes came? Didn’t she want them and hoard them and love them?

I don’t have the dress made of water, the prince says.

Little Mina draws a sheet over herself. She’s horrified to be caught like this, so vulnerable, so liminal. Half the diamonds have already been removed. Half are still in their pockets of skin. It’s been so long since anyone has seen her as a girl. Has seen the skin as anything other than hard-packed earth and now it’s on display and not only the skin, but the blood beneath it.

Even now, even with the kingdom rolling in diamonds, no one ever visits.

There are places we could go, the prince says. I can make you happy. We’ll make a life together and you’ll never grow another diamond again. But everyone will know you stole me, Little Mina says.

He looks at the mother and at the witch. The witch shrugs. Do what you want, she says. Just leave the door open so I’m not stuck here with that woman.

And Little Mina wants to believe him, so she says yes. He cuts the rest of the diamonds out himself. The sores heal immediately under the soft print of his fingers. She feels desire like a dragon in her belly. No one has ever touched her so softly. The witch looks away. She is ashamed of the hardness of her own hands. She is ashamed, maybe, of what she did to the girl.

In this version, the girl and the prince live happily ever after in a faraway place. Little Mina has a daughter and when the daughter cries, her tears hit the floor and become frogs. They hop all over the house. The prince laughs when a frog jumps into a bowl of soup. Little Mina laughs the hardest. She tells her daughter that she’s lucky and the daughter laughs, too, because the frogs are funny. No one will ever want a girl who cries frogs. Not for the frogs, at least. That’s not the way the world works.

Your endings are lonely. The thing about Chloe is that her skin never stops making diamonds. Her skin never stops being sharp. So when she curls her body into the crook of a man, she cuts him. Even a good man. Even a man who she loves. The thing about the other girl, the dead girl, is that she died. Heaven is the loneliest place on Earth, you say. Your stories are cruel. They exploit. They isolate. They make it impossible to be human.

You think I’m childish. You think I don’t understand them.

But I do.

Let’s say the prince marries the other girl. She is more beautiful than Little Mina. Her hair grows thick and blonde. She comes with an entire kingdom and three chests of gold. Let’s say the prince isn’t who we want him to be. He isn’t as strong as we want him to be.

But then, neither is Little Mina. No one is fighting hard enough.

One night when the mother is asleep, the witch takes Little Mina into her arms and rocks her. She apologizes. She says she wanted so badly to give her a good life, but she didn’t know how. She says that if she could remove the mother’s skin and step into that mortal body, she would. But a mortal body won’t survive if you skin it, and the skin won’t survive either. There’s a way for the mother to become the witch, but not for the witch to become the mother.

It’s confusing, she says, but that’s just the way the world works. Maybe what she means is that she is the mother already, and Little Mina is the girl in the basket.

It’s too bad, Little Mina says, no one would miss my mother.

I can give you freedom, the witch says. I can, at least, give you that.

The girl is laden with heavy sores. She is fit to burst, so valuable in that exact moment that she could sink to the bottom of the sea and not be found until her ribs float to the surface. She squeezes one of the sores on her elbow. It’s almost ready.

If freedom is dying, she says, I don’t want it.

It isn’t dying, the witch says.

The witch digs into her purse and brings out the folded piece of sky that was her roof. It is a sunny day, the sky a frosted blue. It lights up the interior of the cave even though there is no sun and outside, it is night. Little Mina runs her fingers along the edge of it.

Take it, the witch says. Wrap it around yourself.

And then what? Little Mina says. She is sick with the weight of the diamonds. She is like an old dog that has had too many litters. She is like a mine whose sides are worn with too many pick-axes. There are canaries inside of her, and they all say to run.

You’ll be too big for this room, the witch says. You’ll break the walls down and the sky will take you back into itself. I have a long ladder. I will visit you.

Little Mina drapes the sky over her shoulders. She wraps it around her naked waist and pulls it tight. Coolness descends over every inch of her. She feels like a child again. She feels like she did before her sister died, before she realized that her hair would never be pretty and her skin was scarred and that nobody loved her in the whole wide world. She is her father and her mother and her sister. She is the witch. She is you and she is me.

Little Mina says goodbye to the witch, and thank you. Then she tugs the sky over her head and bursts from the cave. She flies to the edge of the Earth and pins herself back into place along the horizon, her body an absence, with stars in every imaginable color blinking roughly against the black night.

©2016 by Courtney Bird. Originally published in The Fairy Tale Review. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Courtney Bird’s stories have appeared in the Fairy Tale Review, the Indiana Review, the Masters Review, and Barrelhouse, among others. She has an MFA from the University of Montana and a BA in art history from Princeton. She is currently working on her first novel.

From the Root

Emma Törzs | 6670 words

When I was sixteen, I sold my teeth each Thursday, and that is how I first met the doctor. This was before his celebrated school, his fame, his dogged pursuit of bodies for his collection, back when he was very young and took his income as a dentist. While the ladies of society ate cakes until their smiles were the same gappy gray cobblestone as our London streets, my own hungry mouth was full of pearls, and I let the doctor harvest them. He paid four cents an incisor, five for the fronts. After my first visit, he asked me to stay back for a word. Not ten minutes earlier, he’d pulled my right front tooth and planted it firmly root-first in the rotted mouth of a nobleman’s daughter, and already I could feel the edge of a new one poking through my ragged gum. I kept my lip down to hide it.

He said, “Am I wrong to suspect you won’t miss that tooth for long?”

Fear clenched my throat but I forced a laugh. “Only when I chew,” I said.

“None of that,” he said impatiently. “I keep many people’s secrets, and I’ll keep yours. Tell me, you have very fine teeth—do they always come back in so strong and white?”

Even young in his bloodstained dentist’s coat with his uncovered hair curling about the collar, the doctor had a totality of confidence that made it seem a waste of words to protest what he clearly understood. Too, he was handsome, and I was not immune. “Always, sir,” I admitted.

“There aren’t so many dentists in this town,” he said. “You’ll soon run out, for they’ll remember these teeth too well for a repeat visit. I, on the other hand . . .” He smiled. “I’ll forget you as soon as you leave this office. And I have no shortage of ladies wanting transplants.”

So our bargain was struck, and each week he pulled out all my teeth, and the next week, when they’d long since grown back, he pulled them all again. A steady arrangement for good money, but quite painful, and when after a few months I began my apprenticeship as a midwife, I stopped selling my teeth altogether. I regretted leaving my acquaintance with the doctor, however, and I kept my eye on him. As I’d left that day, I’d asked him, “How did you know what I was?”

“Your mouth,” he said. “Regenitrix tissue tears differently than that of human tissue. It’s a slight difference, but visible to the trained eye. I’ve had the pleasure of dissecting one of your kind before.”

Aside from our remarkable healing and our unvarying female sex, regenitrices were known for the manner of our death, when we were known at all—mostly our identities were kept in painstaking secret, due in great part to the curious knives of men like the doctor. We died one of two ways: old age at ninety, or childbirth. Though there were rumors that we’d survived parturition in the past, I’d never met a living person who’d known a regenitrix to make it through. We convulsed, became insensate, and bled to death, hours after giving birth. My mother died birthing me; her mother died birthing her; and god forbid I should fall pregnant, I would die giving life to my own daughter. The doctor, then, had dissected either a very old woman, or a body freshly post-partum. So I understood the depths of his ambition; and I respected him for it, as I was not without ambition myself. From then on, I watched him very closely—and when he called on me for a favor nearly a decade later, I learned he’d been watching me, too.

• • • •

The woman, Marya, had taken a room over a chandler’s shop, and the foul, fatty scent of rendered tallow followed me up the narrow staircase. I knocked once, listened. From below I heard the rattle of carriage wheels and the shout and clamor of people in the streets, but from behind Marya’s door there was silence. I knocked again; I shook the knob. I felt the floorboards bend beneath my feet and then a voice said through the door, “Can I have no peace in life nor death? Turn around, why don’t you, and break your neck on the stairs. Maybe if that damned doctor has your fresh body to play with, he’ll leave mine alone!”

“It’s true I work for the doctor,” I called. “But the stairs wouldn’t hurt me. I’m like you.”

There was a silence, and then she cracked the door open on its chain, so all I could see was a brown eye leveled at mine. “Prove it,” she said.

I’d sharpened my knife for this very purpose. I took the blade from my boot and showed it to her, then sliced the pad off my thumb, quickly, like peeling a potato. In the name of science I had cut into my own body enough times that the pain was quite familiar, searing but fiercely localized, and the sliver of meat dropped to the floor as my blood welled, spilled, then slowed to a drip as my flesh began to knit together. In a moment, the pain was gone and my thumb was perfectly whole. I showed her.

“You’d better come in and clean up,” Marya said, and unlatched the door.

I remembered the fliers she had pasted around town months ago (“Marya the Songbird, Hear her Warble Any Tune!”) and I remembered drawings of her face, too, but they had been wildly inaccurate. In real life she was young but not pretty, heavy-browed and heavy-jawed with an incongruously tiny painted mouth, like a red bow on a potato. Her skin was sallow as an old bandage. Even as heavily pregnant as she was, there was a spindly, underfed quality to her body, though she swept around the room with an energy that belied her sickly form. Our kind did not get ill. It was fear that ate away at her.

She handed me a dampened cloth, then eased herself down onto the hard chair by the window. The small room was clean, the bed perfectly made, the floorboards swept, the chamberpot tucked scentlessly out of sight, but the windowpane was caked with grease and dirt. She laid a hand over her belly and looked at me as I cleaned the blood from my hand.

“So,” she said. “He’s sent one of my own to persuade me.”

“He has,” I said.

“Why not let me deliver your lines for you?” Marya said. “I’m the performer, after all—I bet I’m more convincing. Listen.” She cleared her throat, deepened her voice to a growl. “Marya, selfish girl! Think of the generations who may come after you, think of the lives you could save. Sign here, and your dead body will be promised to the scalpel, we’ll tear apart your womb in the name of science and find the answer to this curse your people carry. And yes, your decomposing breasts will be bared to a roomful of foul-breathed rich boys, and yes, your flesh will be boiled away and your bones assembled in a skeleton for medical students to gawp and grope, but all in the service of science, Marya, and the continuance of your people!” She let her voice come back up to its natural tone and fixed me with a glare. “Well?” she said. “How was I?”

“Bravo!” I said. “But you’ve missed the part about our mothers, who gave their lives to usher us into this world, and how it may be your very body that holds the key to a generation of regenitrix children who grow up knowing all the tenderness of a maternal parent that we ourselves were cruelly denied.”

Marya leaned back in her chair. “How much has he offered you, should you convince me?”

I saw no reason to lie. “Education,” I said. “I’ve long wanted to be a doctor; he’ll train me himself, and find me a position.”

“You’re a woman and a regenitrix,” she said. “God himself could not find you a position.”

“The doctor does not put much stock in God.”

“Do you?” Marya said.

“Even less.”

Suddenly the energy seemed to leave Marya like a snuffed candle. She sagged forward, and her eyes filled with tears. “I cannot blame God for my situation,” she said. “The fault lies with me. I took the stage where any man could see me, and desire me; I told myself I was a singer, but I’ve been proved a whore like any other.”

From the street came the high whinny of a horse, and a man’s voice rising in anger, then the snap of a whip on flesh. Tentatively, I said, “So the child’s father –”

“A man who came drunk to my dressing room after a show,” said Marya. “He would not listen when I screamed. He hit me across the face and made me bleed, here.” She touched her cheekbone. “When he saw it heal before his eyes . . . Well. It was he who sold my name to your doctor.”

“He is not mine,” I said, too quickly, my voice too high, but she took no notice. Already her fierce expression had hollowed.

“I thought, since God gave me this voice, perhaps He would protect me in the use of it. Foolish, foolish, I should have kept to hymnals in a dark church.”

“No, Marya,” I said, and clutched the bloodied rag around my perfect thumb. “We should not have to fear men so! Our kind cannot grow, cannot multiply, because the act of new life brings always the balance of death. But imagine if we lived long enough to give our daughters sisters. Imagine, then, that they had many daughters. Imagine a world of women who could not be killed or cowed by pain.”

Marya was staring down at her hands in her lap, curled pale against the dark damask of her skirt, and for a moment I was not certain she was listening. Then she said, “It would be a very different world.”

“The doctor,” I said, “has his flaws. But above all he is a true man of science. Ask yourself, why has the answer to what ails us not been discovered; nay, studied? It is as you said: Women cannot be doctors . . . And men would never seek a cure that may bring about the world I’ve just described.”

Still Marya wouldn’t look at me, her head bowed, and I reached out to touch her knee.

“The doctor wishes to add your body to his collection, yes, it is true. He wishes to dissect you.” I paused, and Marya did not flinch. “But in the name of science,” I said, “he wishes also to find our cure. That is why I trust him. Because knowingly, he would bring about a world of unbreakable women.”

Huddled on her bed, thin-shouldered, sallow-faced, Marya looked anything but unbreakable. Yet when finally she raised her eyes to mine, they were steady as a mountain. “You believe this cure is possible.”

“I believe it’s closer than even the doctor knows,” I said, and took a deep breath. “I trust him, Marya, as I’ve told you. Yet I have not told him everything.”

Marya held herself very still, waiting. I went on. “My deal with the doctor extends beyond education. If I convince you to sign your body over, it is I who will preside over the birth. For my own scientific curiosity, I told him, which he well understands. But what he does not know is that I have a theory I wish to put into practice. A theory that—if it succeeds—might save you.”

“Go on,” said Marya.

• • • •

The stages of labor are as follows. First come the contractions, and the slow dilation of the cervix. The water breaks, light blood can show. Then, when the cervix is completely opened, the contractions become more intensely painful and focused, and the mother begins to push until the baby is born. After the child has emerged, the cord leading from the placenta is clamped and cut, and some time later the placenta is delivered and discarded, a lump of useless meat.

So I had been taught, so I had observed in the city’s private chambers, in bedrooms turned to birthing rooms, women red-faced and screaming for God to kill them or kill their husbands while I knelt between their legs and coaxed their children out into the light. Childbirth was a sure death sentence for regenitrices, but it was far from safe for normal women, and I kept a tally of how many mothers died on my watch, and the cause. I saved hundreds more than I lost, however, and I tallied this too. The answer to my peoples’ curse was as likely to lie in success as in failure, and I filled notebooks dedicated to my theories, all tried on human women and ultimately discarded. I rented quarters in the busy family home of a friend, and learned to hide my notes and diagrams lest the maid come in to clean and passed away from shock, as she once did at the sight of a particularly detailed mid-birth illustration.

Meanwhile the doctor was much talked-about in town, and I drank the chatter with a thirsty ear. He’d been a prodigy at the medical college, and at a young age had been placed in charge of procuring bodies for the dissection room. He did his fair share of waiting dutifully at the gallows, but it was no coincidence that during his tenure the city’s nighttime graveyards began to crawl with groups of men, shovels and crowbars slung over shoulders as they stalked among the stones searching for freshly turned dirt. Several times I dressed myself carefully in breeches and a hat to hide my hair, and hired myself out as a boy for the evening, leaping into open graves to haul the stiff bodies from their coffins. One of the corpses I collected was a pregnant woman, her belly bloated hard as rock from the dead child inside, and for her the doctor paid double the going rate. I kept my head down as he dropped the silver into my palm, but I watched his hand approach, flaked with dried blood and gore from an evening in the dissection room. I closed my fingers ever so slightly as he withdrew, and brushed his skin with my own.

Years later, after I’d begun working steadily as a midwife and he’d started his own prestigious school, I took to standing by his wooden doors to watch the students filing out, smelling of blood and the spirit of wine in which they preserved organs, chattering excitedly about whatever lesson they had learned that day: how air moved through the lungs, how were finger joints articulated, how heavy was the human heart. Aside from a few odd looks, most men paid no attention to a common girl in a wool cloak, and I was not noticed. I would have given my hands to attend those lectures, though of course for me it would not have been much of a sacrifice, beyond the brief but awful pain. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of the doctor himself, and on these rare occasions I admit my heart would thrum in my chest like sudden rain.

I had spent my life terrified of men, of what they could do to me, but alone late at night that terror sometimes turned to something else, turned to a deep curiosity that began between my legs and bloomed exquisitely when I attended to it. The doctor’s unhallowed dealings with the dead and his insatiable experimentation had given him a reputation beyond the bounds of the medical establishment, and there were those who said he was a monster; but so, too, were we regenitrices considered monstrous, and for this and other reasons I felt a certain monstrous affinity for the man.

After all, I too had experimented. As a motherless little girl I’d often cut off my fingers and watched them grow back, fascinated. I experienced pain like any other child, of course, but mine was different because I knew I would get better, and so the pain was all sensation and no emotion, no fear. It was not mortal. In fact, I did not understand mortal fear until the first time I saw a woman giving birth, when I was nine: her eyes were filled with animal terror, the pupils blown black and the whites showing like a mad dog’s, all decorum vanishing in her body’s panic as her arms thrashed and curses flew from her bitten mouth, but she survived. In her place, I would not.

Men, then, were my only true source of fear—and whatever other feelings they engendered, fear had to prevail.

In all my years in London, the doctor was the only person in the city who knew I was a regenitrix. He kept his silence, and so kept my respect. Nearly a decade had passed since I’d first tilted back my head and let his gentle forceps extract my front tooth, and though I’d seen him all those times while hidden by disguise or distance, and even passed him in the street, we had not spoken so much as a word; nor did I ever see any evidence that he noticed or recognized me in return. Yet I persisted in feeling he was aware of me. It was the delusion of anyone who much admired someone else’s work; if you immersed yourself in the words of a favorite author, or followed a favorite singer from theater to theater, you could not help but feel, on some level, to be their intimate. It was the delusion of distant love. Intellectually, I knew my acquaintance with the doctor was a false affinity, one-sided. Knew it, and yet beyond the confines of my rational mind, deep within my thwarted heart, I still believed that somehow we circled one another like points on a pair of compasses. And so when he’d come to call on me in my home, despite what he asked of me, I could not help but tremble from the pleasure of being seen.

• • • •

“I’m surprised the doctor never took you,” said Marya. It was some weeks after my first visit, and I’d since called on her nearly every day. “He knows what you are—why has he never tried to claim your body as he’d like to claim mine? If you had his child, he’d have both your corpse and a child’s living body to study.”

She said it in her usual forthright fashion, but something in my face must have changed because she sat up a little in the bed. I was beside her in the chair, my palm on her belly, performing the examination that was my excuse to come and see her. In truth, I simply liked to be around her. She was the only person in the city—besides the doctor—who understood me for what I was, and I had come to see her as a friend.

“Lie back,” I said.

“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” she said.

“The doctor is not violent,” I said, hoping this was true. “At least, not to the living. He wouldn’t force himself upon me in that way.”

“Have you ever been with a man?” she asked.

I smacked her lightly on the hip. “Marya! What a question.” Of course I had not.

“Have you desired men?”

“Take a deep breath,” I said, ignoring her impertinence. “Another. And out. Good. Give me your wrist now, and let me take your pulse.”

Obligingly, she held out her arm. Her heart was beating strong beneath the skin. “You’re doing very well,” I said.

“I’m dying,” said Marya. “I was dying the moment that man began his violation. You know, I tried to—to end it, with herbs, and with a fall, but nothing can harm me, nor it. I could feel it reforming healthy within me, a parasite.”

“She’s not a parasite,” I said. “She is your child, whether you live or die. Have you plans for her? In case you . . .”

“Yes,” said Marya. “The papers are just there, in the drawer. She’ll go to a woman named Anne, a particular friend of mine.”

There was a subtle emphasis to the word friend, and I glanced up, but her eyes were fixed on the window, staring out at the grey sky. “I myself have never been tempted by . . . a man,” she said.

“Ah,” I said.

“Of course that did me no good, in the end.” She turned to me. “Have you tended a mother like us before?” she said. “Am I your first?”

I took a quick breath, ready to lie, but, ever-observant, she said, “I can see from your face that you have. Did you attempt to save her?”

“Of course I did,” I said, and to my shame I felt a hot swell of tears.

“The same way you’ll try and save me?”

“No,” I said. “On her, I performed a caesarean. That is, I sliced the infant out of her—I thought it might be trouble with our vaginal passage, you see. It wasn’t. But that was years ago, and—”

“Don’t tell me any more,” said Marya, and turned her head to face the wall. “I can’t do anything but trust you, anyway, so I’d rather keep my ignorance, and with it my hope.”

I still had hold of Marya’s wrist, and I didn’t let go, letting the thrum of her blood beneath my fingers soothe me. To this day I could picture the face of the regenitrix woman I’d let die, her cheeks growing paler and paler as she bled out from within, weeping quietly, resignedly, as I’d frantically tried to save her. It hadn’t been the caesarean that had killed her; that had healed as quickly as the pinprick I gave all my patients, the secret test I administered on the passing chance of finding someone like me. She was the only one I’d found by such means, and there’d been a moment right before I’d cut the baby’s cord when I thought I’d done it, when I thought she might live, for the incision was closing neatly around the wet umbilical and she was smiling with joy, reaching for her daughter. But soon after I’d snipped her free the convulsions had started, and then she’d died.

“Even should you prove false,” said Marya, “and your promises are all deceptions for that accursed doctor . . . I’d still be grateful if you’d look in on my girl once in a while. Would you do that for me, do you think? When I’m gone? Try and keep your doctor away from her, anyhow.”

“Hush,” I said. “That kind of talk will court bad luck.”

“Will you, though?”

I said, “Of course I will.”

“I wrote a song for her,” said Marya, and two bright spots appeared on her pale cheeks as she raised her chin, defiant. “A lullaby. I can feel her moving inside me sometimes, restless, and I swear it calms her. You see, I wouldn’t be such a terrible mother after all.”

“No,” I said. “You would not.”

“Do you want to hear it?” she said, cheeks still pink, and when I nodded she began to sing.

It was a private song, a song between a mother and her daughter, and so I will not set the words down here. But even now I remember every note. Marya’s voice was as tender and transcendent as the birds that live in the rafters of old churches, their wings catching the light of stained glass windows and their feathers rustling as they fly from perch to perch, uncaring of god. Listening to her, I forgot the dirt staining the hem of my dress, the stink of the street on my too-small shoes, the snug embrace of my stays; I forgot my body. For a moment, I forgot my fear.

When she finished, I was weeping. After a while she reached out to me, and took my wrist just as I had recently taken hers. It had been years since someone had touched me in this manner, gently, with such attention, and I shivered as she held two cold fingers over the delicate vein that beat beneath my skin. She said nothing, but with her touch she listened carefully to the pulse of my life.

• • • •

The first stage of Marya’s labor began Tuesday evening. A boy came to my door, pink-cheeked and panting with the news, and immediately I gathered my things and set off for the doctor’s house. The doctor had insisted the birth take place in his own lavish home to better accommodate the swells of people he expected in attendance: his colleagues, his students, and newspapermen, all eager for the moment a post-partum regenitrix body was available for immediate study, but he was sensible to my insistence that the act of birth itself must be a private, respected affair, and he’d agreed that only I must be allowed with Marya as she labored. And, at varying intervals, the doctor himself, of course. So the parlor, with its heavy doors, had been transformed into a birthing chamber, complete with a bed in the center of the room and a hot fire on the hearth.

When Marya entered, my stomach gave a lurch of pure nerves and I had to work to keep my lungs from seizing. She was pale and plainly terrified, but when she saw me she offered a small, brave smile, and impulsively I reached out and took her in my arms. She clung to me like a child might, and I could feel her trembling. For a moment I allowed myself to imagine what it might be like to have a daughter, or a sister, or a mother of my own, and I kissed Marya’s hair with a tenderness I did not know was in me.

“I’ve been glad to know you,” she said. “Even if you cannot save me.”

Before I could respond, the heavy doors creaked open and through them came the doctor. Marya stepped quickly away from me, wiping her cheeks, and the doctor looked at me for a long moment with his clear grey eyes, and then he turned and shut the doors behind him.

“People will shortly be arriving,” he said. “Let us make the lady comfortable.”

Together, the doctor and I set Marya up on the bed, she gasping every so often with contractions. I would never admit it aloud, but the doctor’s presence soothed me. His every movement was crisp, deliberate, and unafraid, and his entire stocky Scottish body projected competence, down to the set of his broad shoulders. I tried to trust my own trust in him, tried to believe that if he noticed the glaring change to the standard procedure, he would allow me my experiment. He would allow me to save Marya if I could, because we were on the same side: the side of science, the side of life. Weren’t we?

When Marya was settled on the bed and water was boiling on the hearth, the doctor knelt beside her and took her limp hand in his.

“I am certain you are frightened,” he said. “But know this: Your sacrifice allows your life to continue beyond its mortal limits. Your contribution to science will help those generations who come after you, and so every generation will have a piece of you inside them, carrying you forever onward into the future. Thus, you will be eternal. From my heart, I thank you.”

Marya took her hand away and glanced at me. “It is her you should be thanking,” she said.

The doctor, too, looked in my direction. The force of his gaze burned through me like fire on a wick. Quietly, he said, “Thank you.”

“Out,” I told him, and he made his exit.

It was hours before Marya’s contractions showed change, and slowly a mass of people began to gather outside the door. “Like wolves, they are,” said Marya, with disdain. The doctor kept them well out, though each time he opened the door he was followed by a swell of clamorous noise, men calling questions and shouting drunkenly for updates. It seemed there was a party outside, and I was unspeakably bitter at their blithe celebration of what they thought was imminent death. They drank and laughed while Marya grimaced and cursed through her contractions, though around the eighth hour the sounds from outside grew quieter and the doctor told us many of the hangers-on had gone off to have a kip or find supper.

It was as if Marya’s body had been waiting for this peace, because shortly after the men’s ruckus had died down, her cervix showed an increased dilation.

“Is it coming?” she kept asking.

“Not yet,” I kept saying, until she was fully dilated and finally I could answer, “Yes! It’s coming! It’s time to push!”

At this, Marya threw her sweat-damp head back on the pillow and screwed up her eyes in terrible effort, but her body seemed to clamp up and seize inward, and suddenly I realized she was doing the opposite of what she ought. She was trying, with all her might, to hold her child inside.

“Marya!” I cried. “You must push!”

“I don’t want to die,” she said, tears leaking from her screwed-shut eyes. “Please, please . . .” She stopped with a cry of pain, a howl.

“You have hours of labor yet,” I told her. “If you try and fight it, you’ll only prolong your suffering! You have to trust me.”

“I can’t,” she wept.

“You have no choice,” I said, and a moment later she screamed in agony and frustration and I felt her muscles clench as she bore down, and pushed. In between contractions, she panted for air and wept, crying over and over that she didn’t want to die, until my face was as wet with tears as hers. Dimly, I was aware that the noise in the hall was rising again, that hours had passed and the men were back at their bloodthirsty post, but my world had narrowed to Marya’s wails and the stretch of her flesh.

Now and then the doctor came in, and his presence was a comfort. He would murmur words of encouragement to Marya, address a few brisk but sympathetic questions to me, and then sit quietly with us for a while. He watched me more than he watched Marya, his brow furrowed, and once he said, “I did not think . . . It did not occur to me how this might strike you.”

“Strike me?” I said, distracted.

“It is hard for you,” he said. “In your heart.”

At this I did not trust myself to look up, and occupied myself with sponging sweat from Marya’s face. She, however, turned towards the doctor and let out a particularly ear-splitting scream in his direction, and a moment later he took his leave.

“I hate him!” she screamed. “I hate him, I hate him!”

And suddenly, there it was—a round dark-haired head, pressing at her opening.

“I see the child!” I said, and Marya screamed ever louder, a sound of pure rage and pain and exhilaration. She pushed, and the head emerged further, then further, then a tiny little scrunched-up face appeared. “Push!” I said. “Push, you’re almost there, her head is out and you’re almost done!”

Marya was pushing, and there were the shoulders; she was pushing, and there were the arms; she pushed and I reached out and guided the slippery purplish child into my arms and stared down into her shocked infant face. A beat, and she began to wail. As if on a switch, Marya’s own screams stopped, and when I placed the child on her bosom her expression changed completely; one second her face was full of pain and terror and the next it was shining with wonder, lit from within.

“Oh,” she said, and the doctor burst into the room.

“No!” I said, and stood to bar his way. “No, not now!”

“I heard the babe,” he said, and looked down at me in some surprise. My hands were on his chest and I pushed against him while behind us, the baby yowled. “It’s born,” he said, craning his head and trying to move past me, but desperately I pushed at him again.

“Not yet,” I said, “please, give me time, give me time with her.”

At this he stopped, and his face softened into the lines of compassion. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll return in—” But then he ceased talking. He was looking past me, at Marya, examining the scene with a shrewd eye, and with a jolt of panic I saw that his gaze was trailing from the child’s stomach down between Marya’s bloodied thighs.

“You haven’t clamped the cord,” he said to me, slowly. “Shall I do the honors?”

“No,” I said frantically, “Please, leave us our goodbyes in peace! Please, go.”

“What do you know?” he said, speaking loudly over the din of the baby. “What have you been keeping from me?” His tone was more excited than angry, and finally he moved me bodily out of the way and strode forward to the bed. Marya clutched the child to her breast and pressed her lips against her daughter’s sticky forehead, closing her eyes as if expecting a death blow. The infant moved her little arms like a sea creature and kept shrieking, and I tried one last time to send the doctor out.

“I know nothing,” I said, trying to sound calm, rational. If my theory was wrong, Marya was not long for our world, and it was not a lie to say I wanted us left alone, so that her death might be witnessed by a soul who loved her. “I simply want a last moment with my friend.”

“You forget our long acquaintance,” said the doctor. “I know how clever you are, and I know you’re lying. Tell me.”

Finally, I saw no way out but the truth.

“It’s the cord,” I said. “I believe it’s the practice of cutting the cord that kills us.”

“How so?” the doctor said, and despite myself I was glad to finally share my theory with this man of medicine; proud, even.

“Our bodies regenerate whatever flesh we lose,” I said. “When we cut the cord before the afterbirth separates naturally from the mother’s body, the cord is still part of the woman, and so the body of the mother attempts to regenerate a piece of itself that cannot ever be spontaneously regenerated—the child itself, lost on the other end of the umbilical. It’s an impossible thing to heal; and so we die. Marya’s convulsions should be starting any moment, but I don’t believe they will. Not if you allow the cord to remain uncut.”

Marya’s lips were still against her crying child’s forehead but her eyes were trained on the doctor, huge with fright. The doctor was frowning, staring at the bloody cord that linked the girl to Marya.

“Please,” Marya managed. “Sir, please. There’s no harm in trying it her way, is there?”

The doctor said, “You’ve tricked me.”

His voice was devoid of the humor and warmth I’d come to expect from him, and a chill took me. “I—”

“I’ve promised a body to those fellows shouting outside,” he said. “I’ve promised a body to myself, to science, to the future.”

I was unable to respond, near senseless with fear and guilt. All this time, I had allowed my wretched heart to cloud my mind, had trusted this man because I wanted him, wanted to justify my own desires by believing him good, but of course he was a man like any other. Suddenly my legs were flimsy as tinder, and I caught myself on the edge of the bedpost.

“Damn it to hell,” the doctor said, and scrubbed his hands roughly through his unwigged hair. “Well, I’ve no choice. We must see it out, if you think she might live.”

It took a moment for his words to penetrate my fog. “See it out?” I said.

The doctor was lowering himself to crouch at Marya’s bedside, his eyes on the child, not noticing that Marya shrank from him. “See your theory to its conclusion,” he said, and raised his face to me. His eyebrows shot up, and he looked for a moment like a small boy. “You could not think I’d kill this woman?”

My head was dizzy with relief, and I laughed aloud. “Doctor,” I said. “I truly did not know.”

He was still looking at me, his expression hurt. “I’m not a monster,” he said. “Were she condemned to death, yes, naturally I’d want to be on hand to collect her remains, but I’ll stop at purposefully killing her, if I can help it. Now, Marya,” he said, and my heart was hollering in harmony with the child. “Let’s see how well this girl takes to the breast.”

• • • •

Those gentlemen who had gathered outside the door, waiting only for a corpse, were ultimately disappointed. But those men who’d truly come for love of science were well-rewarded, for they could claim they’d been on hand for one of the great obstetric breakthroughs of the eighteenth century. A breakthrough that was fully researched, planned, and performed by the great doctor. The news of Marya’s survival did not quite bring the fanfare that a gory death might have (success never could sell as many papers as a scandal), but the coverage was more than enough to grow the doctor’s already formidable renown, and his fame henceforth reached such heights that he was appointed surgeon to the Crown, and presided over the deliveries of the Queen herself. In all the papers, no mention was made of the attending midwife.

“Fame would only cause you trouble,” the doctor said to me in bed, after I’d satisfied my long-held curiosities, several times over. This was true, yet it did not quite stopper my resentment, and we made another deal, the doctor and I: I would keep my part in the matter quiet, and he would provide the funds to get Marya, her daughter, and Marya’s particular friend Anne away from London with new names, for it boded ill that Marya be known to the public as a regenitrix. We kept up a correspondence all our lives, and if ever I was feeling down I had only to think of Marya in the countryside, singing to her daughter, and my spirits would lift like a bird. The doctor may have wiped me from the incident, but he did not hide the manner of Marya’s successful birth, and though the regenitrices of England kept as quiet as ever, I knew that all over the country women were giving birth in secret and choosing not the cut the cord, keeping themselves connected to their daughters so that they might stay connected to life.

The reporters did get one scandal out of the incident, however, and my name did after all receive some small public notice. Several weeks following Marya’s delivery, the first female student was admitted to the doctor’s college. That I was also a regenitrix was naturally not disclosed to the public. People were already outraged enough over my sex, and I didn’t like to think how appalled they’d be if they knew that, instead of tuition, I paid the doctor in a steady supply of dissectible body parts.

Even, when he asked for them, my teeth.

©2018 by Emma Törzs.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emma Törzs is a writer, teacher, and chronic waitress based in Minneapolis. Her short fiction has been published in journals such as Uncanny, Ploughshares, and the Missouri Review, and honored with a 2015 O. Henry Prize. She’s grateful to the University of Montana MFA, the Loft Literary Center, the Jerome Foundation, the McKnight Foundation, the MRAC, the MSAB, and Norwescon for financial support through the years, and she’s an enthusiastic graduate of Clarion West ’17.

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

There’s a Hole in October

Todd McAulty | 21170 words

It’s only been forty minutes since my last rest stop—half an hour of staring at a wall in a coffee shop east of London, Ontario—but I see the towering sign for a Bob Evans, tell myself I could use fresh coffee, and pull off the 401 into the parking lot anyway.

The crowd’s pretty light, even for ten o’clock on a Sunday night. There’s a bunch of kids by the fish tank, poking at the lobsters, some college kids near the bar, and three truckers by the windows watching the Jays game. The waitress spots me but I shake my head at the offered menu and just order coffee.

My gut feels sour. I really need to relax, simply chill for ten minutes. I can afford ten minutes. I glance at my watch; only two hours to go. Two hours until I cross the border, and this whole sorry ordeal is behind me.

Steel would get a kick out of seeing me like this, the smug bastard. “If you’re going to be nervous about it,” he’d said in his best mentor voice, “the thing is, don’t do it.”

Backing out was no longer an option, although admitting that would’ve been a serious mistake. “I’m not going to be nervous,” I’d told him.

We’d been making our way through Steel’s garage, past his collection of bikes. Not too long ago, Steel was big into motorcycles, and he still looks the part. Leather jacket and big crunchy beard. I’d never come to Steel’s place when there weren’t half a dozen rigs out front, and an equal number of leather-clad bikers laughing and drinking in his kitchen. Steel did a lot of traffic between Toronto and Montreal a decade ago, and still does business through one of the big Quebec gangs. But he must be over fifty now, a little too seasoned to test his bones against a Canadian winter. Nowadays Steel drives a big red Chevy Tahoe.

“You sure?” Steel said, slowing for a minute to look at me.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I cross the border all the time.”

“Not with fifteen K worth in your trunk, you don’t.” Steel’s tread was very slow now, and I could hear the deliberate crunch of gravel under his leather boots.

This is the gauntlet part of the deal. If Steel walks you all the way across the cold garage floor, the transaction is done. But if he hears something he doesn’t like, if he stops or turns around, then it’s no dice. The trick is to keep your hands on your money and keep him moving, always keep him moving towards that locker at the far end. Sometimes it can be a long trip.

“With a little stuff,” I said. “All the time.”

“Ain’t the same.”

I know it’s not the same, this is not a news flash that it’s not the same. “The point is, Steel, I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous. I’ll be fine.”

It occurred to me that I was very nervous right now, that I probably looked it, and it was none of his damn business anyway. It was my fifteen thousand.

There was a long pause, and then Steel kept moving with a shrug. “Okay,” he said. “It’s your fifteen thousand.”

I sit at the table and rub my hands, working out the chill and impatient for coffee. There’s coffee in a thermos in the truck, but I’m here and there’s no point in examining my excuses for pulling over now. I try not to look at my watch again. I need to reach Windsor in two hours, cross the border into Detroit before midnight. After that it’s the night shift at customs, and I’m in line with the terrorists and drug smugglers.

I’m too nervous, and the fact that I am is really making me damn nervous. This is the easiest thing in the world, a simple eight-hour drive, and I’m blowing it way out of proportion. I take a breath and try to un-tense my shoulders.

• • • •

Man, look at this. The guy leaning out the window at customs isn’t much more than a kid. Acne and greasy hair. It’s almost midnight and there are a thousand places he’d rather be. All that worry for nothing.

“Citizenship?” he asks as I roll to a stop before his polite little gate.

“Canadian.”

“Where are you headed, sir?”

“Ann Arbor, Michigan.” I’m tired and bored, and I look like I’m tired and bored.

“How long will you be staying?”

“Just two days. My cousin’s getting married.”

“Yeah? Congratulations. Do you have anything to declare?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing? No wedding gift?” He grins a little.

“Well, yeah. It’s a gift certificate, for fifty bucks. I’m not much of a shopper.” I fumble through my pockets. “Do you need to see it?”

“No, that’s fine. Are you bringing any tobacco or alcohol with you?” His eyes roam over the truck, settle on the back seat.

“Noooo . . .” I’ve got some beer back there. Is it visible where he sits? “Wait, I got a . . . what is it, it’s like half a six pack. It’s in the back.”

“Half a six pack?”

“Yeah, that’d be a three-pack, right?” I laugh. I shouldn’t be laughing, I sound nervous. He’s staring at me now.

“Just a sec, I’ll look,” I say. Shit, I am nervous now, my palms are sweaty—

“That’s not necessary . . .”

“No, it’s right here.” I’m leaning back in the seat, mentally cursing. Just cool it. “Here it is. It’s just two cans. Heh . . . you want one?”

The line of his jaw hasn’t budged, but there’s a frown to his eyes now. I hear the car behind me roll forward a few inches, road debris scrunching under the tires. We’re taking longer than normal. Are we taking longer than normal? We must be. Shit, just relax.

“Sir, are you certain you have no other items to declare?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m certain. I’ve got nothing.”

He sits quietly and looks at me. My fingers drum the steering wheel. The car in the lane to my left is set free and shoots forward down the road, into the soft underbelly of America.

“So, I can go now?” I say, easing up on the brake a little. Too eager, that was too eager.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to pull over, right over there by the lights. A U.S. Customs officer will be with you in a minute—”

• • • •

Dammit. I open my eyes. The waitress must have brought my coffee, because it’s sitting right in front of me. I take a sip. My hands are trembling.

This is whacked. I’m not going to make it through customs like this. I’m a wreck, and all this stalling isn’t helping. My blood must be five percent caffeine by now.

I shouldn’t rehearse customs over and over, either. I’m only making it worse. I need to relax; I can do this if I just relax. I spread my palms flat on the table, take a slow breath, and look around for a moment.

The restaurant is full of people whose lives, unlike mine, aren’t dogshit. One of the kids has wandered away from the fish tank and is yakking with the truckers. Over in the corner someone must have said something pretty damn funny, because all the college kids are laughing and pounding the tables. I need to be like them for the next two hours. Someone without a care in the world. I can do this. I just need some quick serenity.

Geez, look at this kid. He must be hitting up the truckers for spare change. Truckers are shaking their heads, incredulous. One of them cranes his neck, looking around for the boy’s parents, maybe. Whatever the kid wants, the truckers ain’t got it, and eventually he moves off.

It’s time for me to move it, too. I motion for the waitress. She ignores me, but I’m not in a mood to wait. I drop two loonies on the table and pull on my jacket. Lousy tip for $1.75 coffee, but I’m on a budget at the moment.

I turn to head out and suddenly it’s the kid, staring up at me and blocking my way.

“Whoa, Junior,” I say, managing a smile. “Almost ran over you.” I start to skooch around him.

“Hey, mister,” he says, reaching out one hand. Man, he is gonna hit me up for spare change. Kid can’t be more than seven years old. He’s got rumpled curly hair, jeans, and a baseball cap on backwards. He looks like a Gap ad.

“Yeah?” I say, still skooching.

“You’ve got a big car.”

That’s a new one. I do have a big car. Ford Explorer, a gas-guzzling behemoth I bought used in the spring of ’00, two months before a manufactured gas shortage sent gas prices to like a hundred bucks a liter. “Yeah,” I say again, more cautiously this time.

“Is it empty?” the kid persists. Lord, a junior customs officer, two hours from the border.

“Why?” I ask.

“Can you give us a lift?”

“You’re joking.” But I can see in his eyes that he’s not. Kid is dead serious. A seven-year-old is hitting me up for a ride at Bob Evans. As if tonight weren’t surreal enough already.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he says in a rush, “but we’re kinda in trouble and could really use some help.” He’s actually got his cap off now and is twisting it around in his hands. First a Gap ad, now a Hallmark card. Amazing.

“I’m sorry, kid. Can’t help you. Have you asked . . .” I nod in the vague direction of the college kids and truckers, and notice the truckers watching me with amused looks. Doubtless they’ve been hit up already, and are waiting expectantly to see how I’ll react. I’m so pleased to be part of their entertainment for the evening.

“I did,” he says. “Nobody else can help us.”

I feel for this kid. I do. He’s certainly got guts. He’s trying to hold it together, but he looks scared. I take a quick look around for his parents, but don’t have any more luck than the truckers did. Other than us and the college kids, the place is pretty much deserted.

“Look . . . I’m sorry.” I take a step back towards the door. “I wish I could help, but I’m leaving right now, and I’m in a big hurry.”

“So are we! You’re going through Windsor, right?”

“Yeah, but—” How did he know that?

“Just let me get everybody, okay?” He doesn’t wait for permission, just scoots off towards the fish tank. There’s a bark of laughter from the truckers, and suddenly I feel even more self-conscious. Is this some new scam everybody knows about but me?

I’m curious to meet this kid’s traveling companions, but not enough to want to stick around. I watch him make his way to the fish tank, then shake my head and turn for the door, digging in my pocket for my toque.

Keys. Haven’t got my keys. I return and snatch them from the table. At the door, I risk a single glance over my shoulder, and instantly regret it. The kid has already signaled his clan. He’s making his way back, and when he makes eye contact he waves and smiles, like I wasn’t just running out on him. I stand awkwardly, half out the door, as he comes running up.

“I got everybody,” he says breathless and excited. He turns and waves frantically to a short black boy in a blue blazer. “This is TJ—TJ, come on.”

“Hello, TJ,” I say without much enthusiasm. I don’t know who cuts TJ’s hair, but they should try doing it sober. He’s wearing a torn jacket at least one size too big for him, and his left sneaker has a visible hole. Just looking at him, I feel the urge to root around in my pockets for loose coinage.

“TJ doesn’t talk,” Eric says.

“Not at all?”

“Not to grown ups.”

A few steps behind TJ are three others, all ponderously winding their way towards us through the maze of tables. They’re all kids. I stare for a moment, then take a step back inside the restaurant. “Is this everybody?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Where are your parents?”

“They’re not here,” he answers cryptically. Before he can say more, the others arrive, and he’s full of introductions.

“This is Stephanie.” He points to a pig-tailed girl who can’t be more than three.

“My name’s not Stephanie,” she responds with a fierce pout.

“It’s not?” I say. Eric shoots me an exasperated look that clearly says don’t ask, but I go for it anyway. “What is your name?”

“It’s Wolf Girl.” With that, she arches back her head and lets out a pretty fair wolf howl. The boy next to her covers his ears.

I’m grinning despite myself. She’s pretty cute, for someone who looks a lot like a street urchin. Her clothes are nice enough, but her shoes look more mud than leather. She’s clutching two filthy dolls who’ve seen much better days, and she’s clearly not dressed for the road—not for October in Ontario, anyway.

“And this is Simon and Stephen,” Eric continues. “They’re twins.”

I can see that. Simon and Stephen look an awful lot alike, though not identical. They’re maybe six, seven, it’s hard to tell. TJ is younger, five or so. With the exception of the twins, none of them look like obvious siblings.

“This guy might give us a ride,” Eric announces to the group. Simon and Stephen brighten up immediately, and even Wolf Girl looks at me with renewed interest.

“Slow down a minute,” I interject. “I never said that.”

Everyone is staring at me suddenly. All five kids, the truckers, the comedians by the bar. Even the waitress is looking in my direction as she drains a coffee pot.

“Look . . .” I hunker down and grab a chair, slipping under the deck of all that scrutiny. “Where are your parents?”

“They’re not here,” Simon says simply. “We were on a school trip.”

“A school trip?”

“We missed our ride,” Eric explains. “We’re trying to get home.”

“How did you get here?” I ask.

“We got a lift from Joseph,” pipes in Simon. Or maybe Stephen, I’m confusing them already.

“Who’s Joseph?”

“A nice truck driver,” he explains.

“Uh-huh. What happened to him?”

“He’s gone,” Eric says.

“What do you mean, he’s gone? What, did he drop dead?”

Eric visibly starts, staring at me with wide eyes. Okay, bad choice of words. I say with an effort, “All right, so this guy gave you a lift here . . . and then what, he left?” That sounds a bit stiff, even for a trucker. “Where’d this guy pick you up?”

“At McDonald’s,” says Eric.

“What McDonald’s? Where?”

“In London,” he says. London is less than half an hour east on the 401. It’s not a big city, but there must be at least half a dozen McDonald’s. I’d never find the right one, even if I felt like backtracking all the way to London. Which I don’t.

“Did this guy . . . did he just take you? Against your will?”

“No,” Eric says.

“Did he hurt you?”

Eric and TJ both shake their heads.

So what’s the real story here?, I wonder. An abductor who lost his nerve? Or maybe a drunken uncle who stranded them accidentally? I knew a kid that happened to. Forgotten at a rest stop in New Brunswick for a couple hours. Messed him up for years.

The mystery of just how they got here will take some unraveling, and frankly I’m starting to lose interest. I haven’t got the luxury of sorting it all out just now. “Well, I’m sure Joseph will be back for you then,” I say. “Does he have a cell phone?”

“He’s not coming back.” It’s Stephanie this time. I’m not expecting a three-year-old to be the authority on current events, but no one contradicts her.

“Okay, fine.” I look around for the waitress impatiently, but she’s vanished. “Look, there’s a girl working here. I can’t give you guys a lift, but I can ask her to call the police—”

Eric is shaking his head already. “We can’t,” he whispers, so softly I can hardly hear him.

I’m not too keen on calling the cops either, but his reply surprises me. “Why not?”

“We can’t,” he says simply.

“We just need to get to my house,” one of the twins says.

“Where do you live?”

TJ leans close to him and whispers something. “In Detroit,” says Simon/Stephen. Detroit is almost two hundred kilometers from here, near as I can figure. Jesus, these kids are lost.

“But you can just take us to his aunt’s house in Windsor,” Eric adds quickly. “You’re going there anyway, right?”

I’m not stopping again tonight, I tell myself. I’ll lose my nerve. Hell, if I were to give them a lift, I might as well take them to Detroit.

And for an instant I think, I could do this. I could pack all five of them in the damn truck and sail through customs. Bunch of sleepy kids in the back, one in front with me . . . God, it would work. Just on the way back from the London swim meet, officer, had a little car trouble, but the kids have been real troopers. No, they’re not mine, thank God, just my nephew and his classmates. Got roped into driving them for the weekend. We wouldn’t even get a second glance.

I shake my head. I might be desperate, but I’m not an idiot. Somewhere these little runaways had parents, and there were probably a dozen OPP officers out combing the streets for them already. I’m not a big follower of the news, but even I’ve heard of the recent rash of child murders across Southern Ontario. Now isn’t the time to be trucking around with a stash of kids. They might be an asset at customs, but in every other way they were bad news.

So I’m standing up, already phrasing a polite exit, when Eric pulls my sleeve. “We have to go,” he says.

“Wait a minute,” I protest, but the kids are already on the move. Chattering quietly, they head out into the parking lot. All except Wolf Girl, who’s got her arms held out to me, still clutching her dolls. With a sigh, I scoop her up. Her arms feel warm around my neck as she snuggles against my left shoulder. I pull on my cap and follow them.

To my truck.

“Whoa . . . hold on, you little terrorists.” TJ is actually reaching for the door to the back seat. They stop and stare at me stupidly, and Stephanie lifts her head from my shoulder to give me a perplexed look.

“Look . . .” I spread my free hand helplessly. “I can’t give you guys a lift. I wish I could help. But I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” Eric argues simply. “It’s just to Windsor.”

“No. I’m on a schedule tonight—”

Abruptly the wind shifts a little, and I can hear a distant wail from the east. One by one the children turn to stare down the black stretch of the 401.

Police sirens.

Damn it. I can see them now. At least two cruisers, lights flashing, following the great flat curve of the highway. They’re really moving. They’ll be here in less than two minutes.

“Eric,” says one of the twins, and I can hear the sudden fear in his voice.

I grip my keys. I can’t be here. Not in front of a bunch of cops looking for missing kids, and maybe even on the hunt for a kidnapper. They’ll hold me, they’ll search the truck—

“I gotta go.” I unlock the truck with the wireless remote and quickly lower Wolf Girl to the ground. The betrayed look she gives me pierces my heart, but this is not the time to be a hero.

Suddenly Eric’s right in front of me, his face white. “You have to help us.”

“Eric, outta my way. I have to go.”

“Please.”

“I can’t! I gotta go, right now.” I try to move around him but he’s grabbed my leg.

“Please!”

I swear loudly. The cops have closed a third of the distance already. They’ll be here in seconds.

I pry Eric off my leg and kneel down to look him in the eye. “Eric . . . man, I’d help you if I could. Believe it. But you need to go back in the restaurant and wait for those cops. They’ll help you.”

“No, they won’t, you don’t understand, if they find us, he’ll find us, you can’t—”

I push him to the side, more forcefully than probably necessary. “Go into the restaurant and wait for the cops.”

I slide into the truck and slam the keys into the ignition. It starts with a roar. I glance in the rearview mirror. The cops are almost here; they’ll see me on the off ramp. If I race off now, one of them might come after me.

I curse again, forcing myself to back up out of the parking space slowly, leaving the lights off. I can feel panic welling in the back of my throat. I fight the urge to hit the accelerator. If I move slow, just keep it casual, maybe they won’t notice me. I shift into gear and take one more glance at the cops—

And watch as they scream by, still on the highway. Passing by without stopping.

Relief floods through me. Oh man. I rub a hand over my face and feel my arm trembling.

I am on the raw edge of losing my nerve. And that’s just not an option. There’s fifteen thousand reasons I can’t go back to Ottawa without a paycheck. What was I going to do, ask Steel for a refund? I need that money, and I need it tonight.

I take a moment to get it together, then straighten up and slam on the lights.

All five of the kids are standing in my road. Two of them twist away from the light, but Eric stands there like a pillar, looking at me across the great metal expanse of the hood.

Jesus. I need some courage like this kid’s got.

I roll down the window. “The hell are you doing, Eric?”

“Take us with you.”

I stare at him. “You really want a ride?”

“Yes.”

“All of you. You want to ride with me?”

I watch three heads nod, and little Stephanie locks eyes with me, holding her two dolls protectively to her chest.

“The hell with it,” I say. “Get in the goddamn car.”

• • • •

They jump in like monkeys, bouncing on the back seat like it’s a circus ride. TJ and one of the twins get in an argument over the window seat.

Eric slides into the seat next to me, as I expected. He laboriously buckles himself in as we glide down the on ramp and slip onto the highway.

“How old are you, Eric?” I ask.

“Seven,” he says. “Almost eight.”

“You’re the old man in this group, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Fine. Then you’re my navigator. You know how to get to Simon’s aunt’s place?”

“Just a sec, lemme ask.” He twists around and pops his head over the seat. “Simon. Simon!”

Simon stops fighting in the back long enough to answer, “What?”

“You’re supposed to have your seat belt on,” Eric says solemnly.

“I tried, but it wouldn’t go in.”

“He’s putting it in the wrong slot,” I say.

“You’re putting it in the wrong slot,” Eric says.

“What slot?”

Eric twists in his seat again. “He wants to know—”

“I heard him. Just have him try both of the metal slots beside him. One of them will work. And find out where his aunt lives.”

Eventually I hear the click of a belt and a triumphant cry from Simon, and not too much later Eric settles down beside me again.

“He says Aunt Yvonne lives where Steinbrenner crosses Zamis Drive.”

“Where the hell is that?” I should be relieved we have something that approximates an address. I’d half expected the answer to be, “With my uncle.”

“I don’t know, but Simon and Stephen think they can find it okay.”

“From the 401? At night, in the dark?”

“I guess.” But he doesn’t sound too sure.

“How about his home in Detroit? You know how to get there?”

“Oh, yeah. Is that where you’ll take us?”

“We’ll see.”

Traffic’s slowing up ahead. Looks like some kind of accident. Now I see where the cops were headed. The kids quiet down in the back and everyone’s face is glued to the windows. It’s a hell of a mess. There’s a lot of emergency vehicles, and the cops have spread flares and closed down all but one lane.

As we get closer I see why. A semi has jackknifed in right lane, blocking the lane and most of the shoulder. The cab looks smashed. There’s an ambulance on the scene, but from the looks of things it’s much too late for that.

“What happened?” whispers Simon.

“Accident,” I say.

“Is the driver dead?” he asks. Man, kids are morbid.

“Yes,” says a small voice. I glance in the back. It’s Stephanie. She’s clutching her dolls and staring out the window. There’s no expression on her face at all.

“There’s an ambulance there,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “You don’t know if the truck driver’s dead.”

“Yes she does,” says Eric.

“Yeah? How?”

“It’s Joseph,” Stephanie whispers.

“What?” I look at Eric. “Joseph? Like the guy who picked you up?”

It’s hard to see as he stares out the window, but it looks like there are tears on his face. “Yes,” he says.

“That’s his rig?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus! What happened to him?”

“They caught him,” Stephanie whispers.

“They? They who?”

But the children are silent, and before too long the whirling fairyland of light and death is behind us, and ahead there’s just the open road.

• • • •

It’s Steel’s half-brother, the legendary Claude, whom I have to thank for this little excursion.

Like Steel, Claude earned his way in the world with a little street traffic. Except he washed his hands of the fiercely competitive Quebec marketplace in the mid-eighties, and began moving stuff across the border. Risky, complicated, but ultimately very rewarding. At least for a decade or so, until his luck ran out in a spectacular gun battle in the suburbs of Detroit.

Claude had carved himself a sizable piece of territory in rural upstate Michigan. Nice part of the state, so I’m told. And a region that, with Claude’s unfortunate passing, was now almost completely dry.

The free market being what it is, it wouldn’t stay that way for long. But what you might call a substantial market window opened with Claude’s death, and stayed open for several weeks. Word was you could name your own price for pure in upstate Michigan at the moment.

It was my roommate JP who first brought it to my attention. JP was eager to capitalize on the situation himself, but in his typical manner he was long on plan and a little short on follow-through.

“Steel knows two dozen guys in the state who are buying,” he said, twirling the long strands of his beard with tobacco-stained fingers. “It’s over a hundred percent mark-up. It’s a goddamn seller’s market. I could make a killing.”

“Won’t last,” I said.

“It doesn’t have to last. I’d be there and back in twenty-four hours.”

“No one’s going to buy from you. You’re a nobody.” Not to mention he didn’t have a car, or even a sense of direction, for that matter.

“I’m a nobody with damn near a hundred percent pure. They’ll buy. They’ll piss themselves to buy.” He sipped his watery green tea and stared at me across our small kitchen. He was really fired up about this; I hadn’t seen him this animated in months. “They all know Steel, that’s all the rep I need. I could make one trip, hit five buyers. God! I’d make a fortune.”

“Come on, JP.” As usual, I felt a certain obligation to bring him back to earth. “Steel will take care of business himself. Why should he split a bonanza like this with you?”

“No way. Steel doesn’t do the border. He got caught in ’78, right on the bridge.”

“Seriously? I never heard that.” Based on the tales I’d heard, I was surprised JP remembered anything from the ’70s, but this at least had the ring of truth. It explained a few of Steel’s idiosyncrasies, anyway.

“True story. He doesn’t mess around with customs anymore. Steel knows the names of the buyers, but transportation he leaves to independent contractors.”

There was a little more talk from JP on the topic after that, but talk was as far as it went. Even if he’d had a car or the seed money, the truth was he wasn’t hungry enough to throw it together.

I did have a car, though I was late on the last two payments. And I knew where I could get a title loan for the seed money. I stayed awake for two nights, thinking about what it would mean to do this. Finally I put in a call to Steel.

“You another one of these ghouls, trying to cash in on my brother’s death?” he demanded. “God, you people make me sick.”

“Come on Steel, it’s not like that.”

“And what is it like, exactly?”

There’d never been any love lost between Claude and Steel, I knew that for a fact. “It’s just . . . damn it, Steel, it’s just business, right? It’s just business, and I really need the money.”

In the end, all I got from him was the name of a single buyer, but it turned out to be enough. Battle Creek, Michigan. Lovely countryside, gentle hills. And home of the score that was finally going to solve my money problems once and for all.

Beside me, Eric appears to be dozing. Things had quieted considerably in the back as well. But I catch Eric’s sleepy eyes and he manages a smile.

“Still up?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“Good. You’re my navigator, I need you awake, dude.”

He stretches mightily, a maneuver that would surely crack the spine of anyone over eight, then settles into his chair and watches the road. “What’s your name?” he asks at last. Then, frowning, “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re taking a ride with me and you don’t even know my name. When I was your age, I was taught not even to talk to strangers. For all you know, I could be some psycho killer.”

He grins at me. “You’re not.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“TJ told us.”

“TJ.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“He knows I’m not a psycho killer.”

“Yup.”

“How does he know that?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. He just knows people.”

“What is he, four years old? Five?”

“He’s five. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

He nods, like that explains a few things. “So, what is your name?”

“Pierre. My name’s Pierre.”

“I’m glad you gave us a ride, Pierre.”

“Yeah . . . well, you’re welcome.”

We ride in companionable silence for a while, until curiosity gets the best of me at last. “So what happened to Joseph?”

For a minute I think he’s not going to answer, and then he says, “He dropped us off in the parking lot and then he kept going.”

“Just like that? He dropped you at the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t come in?”

“No. He had to get back on the road right away.”

“Damn good thing he dropped you off, from the looks of it,” I say, thinking of the flaming wreck not five kilometers from the restaurant. “Was he drunk or something?”

“Drunk?”

“Yeah . . . You know, could you smell alcohol on his breath?”

While he thinks about that, I hear a whisper from the back seat: “Let him go.”

“Hmm?” I say.

“I’m not done with him yet.” It’s Stephanie, speaking in stage whispers.

“What is she saying?” I ask Eric.

“She’s not talking to you.”

“What?”

“She’s just talking to herself,” he says. “She does it all the time.”

I glance into the back seat. Surprisingly, no one is asleep. TJ is staring zombie-like out the right side window, and the two brothers are splayed like rag dolls on the left, arms and legs flopped in every direction. Stephen catches my eye and gives me a sleepy grin.

In the center sits the Wolf Girl, clutching her dolls. The two plastic figures square off across her lap, and there’s a look of intense concentration on her face. “He’s going to tell me where the children are,” she says, wiggling the guy on the left. “He knows, he has to know. It’s what he does.”

I face front again. “That’s pretty weird.”

“Yeah,” says Eric. “She’s kinda spacey sometimes.”

“How do you know Stephanie, anyway? She your cousin or something?”

“I met her through the group.”

Someone’s coming up fast behind us, his headlights growing in the rear view mirror. We’re well past the accident now, but I’m still in the left lane. I flick the mirror to night vision and do a quick shoulder check. The hell with it—he’s got plenty of room to pass on the right. “Group? What group?”

“We’ve got a group. We get together and do stuff.”

“That’s cool. Like a play group?”

“Kind of,” he says.

The headlights are still growing. This guy doesn’t appear interested in passing on the right.

There’s movement in the back seat now. All of a sudden the boys are scrambling around, craning their necks to see out the back window.

“Eric,” Stephen says, and I hear that fear again.

“It’s him,” Simon whispers.

The truck pulls up to my bumper and Mr. Impatient flashes his high beams, point blank. It’s like a spotlight in the back seat, harsh light glaring off everything. I do another shoulder check, muttering under my breath, and signal for the right lane.

“It’s him, Eric!” Simon says, shouting now. “He’s found us!”

I feel Eric’s hand on my shoulder. He’s staring at me wide-eyed. “Hurry,” he whispers. “Speed up! Don’t let him catch you!”

“Who?” I ask stupidly.

“Him!” He points at the great shining maw of the truck.

“That,” I say, jerking a thumb over my shoulder, “is a truck. He wants to pass.” I slide over into the right lane.

The truck thunders past us like some great battleship, all momentum and fury. The Explorer shudders as it passes, and in the glow of its running lights I see Eric’s frightened face at my side. A moment later the truck is nothing but a set of red lights receding into the distance.

“Okay,” I say. “What was that about?”

Silence. “C’mon, you’re freaking me out here,” I say, shooting a look at Eric. “What’s with all the damn screaming?”

“I . . . I thought . . .”

“What? You thought it was Joseph?”

“No.”

“Then what? Is somebody after you?”

“Yes,” he says in the barest of whispers.

“What? Somebody’s chasing you?”

“Yes.”

“Who? Somebody you know?”

“We don’t know who it is.”

“You don’t know who it is,” I repeat with a snort. Was that what this late night safari was all about? Eric gets spooked when some grizzled cargo jockey winks at him in McDonald’s, and he drags his buddies on a cross-country hitchhike? Man, that’s messed up. In my day, we didn’t run from imaginary child molesters. Nobody told us about them, and we liked it that way.

“That’s why we had to leave the restaurant,” Eric continues. “He would have found us—”

“If you say so.” Whoo, psycho kid. “Look, nobody’s chasing you now, okay? You guys’ll be home again in a few hours.” I glance over my shoulder. “And that goes double for you shouters—no more screaming and acrobatics in the back, alright? It’s late and I’m trying to drive.”

“Okay,” says Stephen.

“We’re sorry,” says Simon.

Things do get quieter after that, and the next ten minutes slip by peacefully. There’s not much traffic, and I watch leaves chasing each other across the road. The trees along the highway are bare skeletons, and the ditches are filled with fall’s soggy debris. The road’s dry but the whole landscape looks dreary and wet, like it’s barely survived a torrential drenching. There’s no snow yet, but there will be soon, and the hills look hunkered down in weary expectation.

I need to decide where I’m taking the kids. I can’t afford to motor around the suburbs of Windsor with two five-year-olds arguing over where their aunt lives. Detroit might be simpler, if Eric really knows the way . . . but it might also be a bigger detour. Well, what did it matter, really, after we crossed the border? I was home free after that.

I hope. All I really have is a name and address in Battle Creek, and a vague referral from Steel that, the closer I get, seems less and less like a sterling testimonial. For the first time, doing this solo doesn’t seem like such a perfect plan. What if Mr. Battle Creek doesn’t have the money? What if he’s just some desperate junkie?

I might be walking into a seller’s market, but my options are still pretty damn limited. I have only one buyer, and if he doesn’t pan out what am I supposed to do? Smuggle the stuff back into Ontario for a refund? Shit.

Stop it. Steel knows this guy. When I walk in there tomorrow, I don’t go in alone. I walk in with the weight of Steel’s whole organization behind me. If the set-up smells, I walk. I call Mr. Creek, I read him the riot act. He cleans up his act or he goes without. I’m the one calling the shots here. I’m calling the shots.

Stephanie starts up again with her dolls. “Do you have any . . . any eye-dent-tif-ikation?” one asks the other abruptly. She stumbles on that last word, but pulls it off admirably. “For the children?”

I glance in the back. The boys appear to be dozing. Looks like she’s going to be my only company for a while. I shouldn’t let the boys fall asleep . . . it’s less than an hour to Windsor now, and if I have to shake them awake at midnight they probably won’t remember their own names, much less directions to their aunt’s place.

Well, maybe that’s one less decision I have to make. If they can get me to Auntie’s in short order, great. Otherwise over the bridge we go, into the great American Empire.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so,” left doll says. His voice is subtly different from the first—where right doll was all Mr. Gruff, this one sounds squeaky and weaselly. “I didn’t think of ID for everybody. You didn’t think to bring ID for the children when you entered Canada, sir? No, I didn’t. Weren’t you questioned by Canadian customs when you brought them across, sir? Well, yeah. Can you tell me all the children’s full names again, sir?”

Geez, listen to this. Of all the little girls in Ontario, I hafta pick one up that play-acts customs. Whatever happened to tea parties? Ken and Barbie?

It’s the gruff doll again. “. . . Bring your car right over there . . . Sir, we’d like to question the children individually. Wait, wait, this isn’t necessary. We’ll decide that, sir. We’ll start with the girl . . . what’s her name? Stephanie?”

What the hell?

“Mr. Lassiter, a federal officer will be taking you into custody. What, what for? I never touched those children.”

Jesus! Is one of those dolls supposed to be me? How does she know my name?

“This has nothing to do with the children, Mr. Lassiter. In the back of your truck our dogs found what appears to be 1.2 kilos of—”

I slam on the brakes. Beside me Eric flops forward, and I hear somebody in the back seat slide off with a muffled yelp. I pull off the road and turn on the overhead light.

“What’s she talking about!?” I demand to Eric.

He stares at me with a slack jaw, only half awake. “What?”

“Her. Her.” I jab my finger at Stephanie, who is clutching her dolls silently and glaring at me. “She’s talking about me, she’s talking about my truck—”

Stephanie twists away in her seat, angrily presenting her shoulder to me. A very sleepy Stephen is trying to climb back up onto the seat.

“No she wasn’t,” Eric says.

“You weren’t even awake. She was talking about me, she said ‘Mister Lassiter,’ Pierre Lassiter—”

“It was her dolls.”

“What?”

“She was talking with her dolls, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“It’s just what she does. She doesn’t mean to. But sometimes she talks too much with her dolls. It doesn’t mean anything.”

I’m staring at Wolf Girl. She’s still got her arms crossed, staring out the window and ferociously avoiding my gaze. She takes a sidelong peek at me, sees me looking, and twists still further in her seat.

Stephen and Simon are staring at me uncomprehendingly, and TJ looks completely out of it.

She’s only three, I tell myself. She’s just a three-year-old girl. She doesn’t know anything.

“Stephen,” I say at last. “Get your damn seat belt on.”

“But there’s only three belts—”

“Buckle in with your brother then.” I twist off the light, and guide the truck back onto the highway.

• • • •

They’re quiet for the next few miles, but I doubt anyone’s asleep. Least of all Eric, who’s erect in his seat, one nervous eye on me and the other on the road.

I’m still a little freaked out by Wolf Girl. Three years old or not, she’s playing some serious bullshit mind games with me. It’s not just the weirdness of her knowing my name. That little scene she played out, was that supposed to be US customs? Because the thing was, I didn’t have any ID for the kids. I totally forgot that. Customs would be all over me if I tried to cross the bridge without some convincing paperwork, or at least a much better story. I had to re-think that whole plan.

Then there’s the little issue of what’s hidden in the back of the truck. I’m still thinking about that when I first spot the line of taillights up ahead.

I slow down. Another accident? No. The OPP, the Ontario Provincial Police, have got a cruiser parked sideways on the road, and cops are out with flashlights. They’ve got a single lane open, and they’re waving down traffic to speak with drivers.

“What’s going on?” Eric says, leaning forward to peer over the dash.

“Dunno. Roadblock or something.” Cars are backed up at least two hundred meters from the cops, and we pull up behind a big semi.

“I can’t see,” Stephen complains from the back, bouncing from side to side and trying to see around the rig.

“Settle down. Nobody can see. The cops have some kind of roadblock up ahead.”

“Why?” asks Eric.

Excellent question. My gut is in a knot, and my mind races through all the possibilities. JP? Could he have sold me out, tipped off the cops? That rat bastard. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was mightily pissed off that I stole his plan. Stay cool, dammit, stay cool. The 401 is the main thoroughfare to the border, maybe it’s a random customs check. Or a seatbelt inspection or something.

You don’t shut down the damn highway for a seatbelt inspection. Or even to ferret out one guy with a kilo in his trunk. Come on. This has nothing to do with me, it’s something a lot bigger. The cops are looking for a big time criminal, a bank robber maybe. Or—

I looked at Eric, then the others.

Or they’re looking for a bunch of missing kids. And maybe a kidnapper-murderer. Christ.

The semi ahead creeps forward a few meters, but we stay put. Behind us a mini-van cruises to a stop. I can hear the muffled sounds of a radio, and fragments of a conversation from somewhere.

“What are—” Stephen starts.

“Shut up, I’m trying to think.” What the hell have I gotten myself into? Jesus Jones.

You’re panicking again, look at you. The slightest little thing and you freak. Get a grip, you wuss.

The semi inches forward again. There’s a gap of two car-widths between us now. I still can’t see what’s going down at the roadblock very well.

But then again, they can’t see us either.

I stare across at the eastbound lanes. Traffic there is moving, what little there is of it, so those lanes aren’t blocked. The gulf that separates east and west lanes is a wide stretch of dark grass, split by the shadowy expanse of a wet ditch.

The truck rolls forward again. Three widths. The mini-van behind me inches up on my bumper, wondering if I’m going to get with the program. I reach forward and snap off the headlights.

“What are you doing?” Eric asks.

“Hold on.”

I wrench the wheel left and step on the gas, pulling us off the highway. There’s the loud scrunch of gravel and then we plunge into the grass. It’s taller than I thought, slapping wetly against the frame like storm surge.

My heart is pounding. This is terrifying, even without the threat of police a stone’s throw away. It’s too dark to see the gaping potholes and jagged boulders I know are out there, and every dark patch is a broken axel waiting to happen. We hit a few bumps, and I hear the snap of a branch and the loud pop of something that might be a bottle under the wheels.

With the headlights off every crack seems magnified, every bounce is an impending flat tire. To my left something small and dark shoots off through the grass, a long-toothed night critter racing for its lair.

Somehow we make it across the wide stretch of grass to the edge of the ditch. The truck’s engine seems to shudder as I pause at the rim of the black expanse, looking over my shoulder at the cops. There’s at least two cruisers and they’re close, so close. They don’t seem to have noticed us, at least not yet. But headlights or not, they’re going to see us if we linger. I step on the gas and we’re over the edge, sliding down blind into the gully.

The kids are okay until we’re halfway down. Then there’s a loud thump and Stephanie screams. The right wheel churns over something hard and jagged, bouncing the truck up eight inches, and everyone in the back loses it. I curse under my breath.

There’s a splash and we’re at the bottom, and I can feel the wheels churn through mud. We start climbing almost immediately. There’s a bad moment when the wheels start to spin, when the truck starts what could be a long slide back into the ditch, but then we abruptly crest and we’re out of the ditch.

We get over the grass on this side easily enough, and suddenly I’m on the shoulder of the eastbound lanes. There’s no oncoming traffic, so I slide us onto the tarmac.

Don’t go crazy now. Don’t look guilty. Nice, even acceleration. I turn on the headlights and bring us up to speed slowly. In the rearview mirror, I watch the flashing lights of the roadblock gradually recede. I slowly let out my breath.

“Why’d you do that?” Eric asks when the noise from the back seat subsides a bit.

“Well, you’re the one who said no cops. I’m with you on that count, believe me.”

“Were there cops?” Stephen inquires from the back, his voice full of awe.

“Where are you going now?” Eric asks.

Another excellent question. I have no idea. There must be another way across the border, but I have no clue what it is at the moment. It’s probably two hundred kilometers away. This little detour is really going to cost me.

Unless I dump the kids. Picking them up was a mistake, I realize now. They’re no good to me at customs, and I can’t clear the roadblock with them in the truck. I could make it to the restaurant and back in a little more than an hour . . . too late to make Windsor by midnight, but the trade-off would be worth it.

But I’m not up for that. Not yet. I can’t just abandon these kids, like Joseph-the-likely-pervert. Besides, I’m in no hurry to take the Windsor route now anyway. There’s bound to be another crossing somewhere—

“Oh shit.” In my rearview mirror, less than two kilometers back, I see the approaching lights of an OPP cruiser.

Goddammit. I hit the gas. What was I thinking? That they wouldn’t come after me if I didn’t speed away from the roadblock? Shitfire.

“What’s wrong?” Eric asks.

“Look behind us.”

He twists around in his seat; they all do. Five pairs of eyes train on the flashing lights behind us.

My options are severely limited, and they don’t include a high-speed chase down the 401. I can’t see any exits up ahead. There’s no tree line on the right, not even shrub cover. I could pull over, maybe ditch the stuff in the grass before the cops got here—if I could get to the package in back in time.

I glance in the mirror again. There’s no way. In five minutes, I’m going to be in handcuffs.

There’s a hill up ahead. Not much, really, but once I’m over it I’ll be out of sight of the cruiser for thirty, maybe forty seconds, tops. If there’s an exit on the other side, a pull off, anything, I might have a chance.

We crest the hill two minutes later, doing close to 150 klicks. I flash the high beams and get a desperate glimpse of clear Ontario prairie. The road stretches on ahead as far as I can see, flat and regular. No exits, no tree line on the right, not even shrubs.

I am screwed.

It takes less than five seconds to decide. I slam on the brakes, locking up the wheels and executing a skid down fifty meters of road. I hear with some satisfaction another thump and muffled cry as Stephen hits the floor again. Seatbelt, twit.

The cops will be over the hill in maybe twenty-five seconds. I twist the wheel hard left and we head over the grass of the meridian again, much faster than last time.

“Not again!” Eric shouts.

“Grab on to something.”

The ride is bone jarring. We hit numerous hidden stones and what I’m sure is a log. We actually get airborne, a little, at the lip of the ditch, before coming down hard in the mulch and weeds. Mud splatters my window and something clangs against the tail pipe. An instant later we’re climbing the other side, and I hear the wheels throwing mud and gravel.

Fifteen seconds.

We’re crossing the wet grass on the westbound side when I start to fishtail. I pull the wheel right, too hard, and suddenly we’re spinning. I shout a loud obscenity and pump the gas, precisely the wrong thing to do. Our spin accelerates and now we’re facing east, the wrong way.

The left front wheel hits gravel. We’re on the shoulder of the road. The tires churn madly and a second later we jar to a stop, straddling the left lane and half on the road. The engine dies, and the dashboard becomes a sea of red. I see oncoming headlights in the right lane, less than two hundred meters away.

Ten seconds. Less. I can hear sirens now, approaching fast.

I turn the ignition. Nothing. The headlights of the oncoming car wash over us, casting angry shadows. I grab the gearshift, twist it savagely into park, and try again. The engine roars to life. Five seconds.

I floor it, pulling the wheel hard left. We surge into the right lane, directly in the path of the oncoming car, and then swerve into the left. Don’t touch your horn, don’t you dare touch your horn—

An instant later the car flashes past us on the right, and I hear shouted curses from the driver. But no horn.

I keep my eyes on the road as the Explorer picks up speed. Twenty klicks. Thirty.

The cop erupts over the top of the hill, sirens blaring. In his headlights, I can plainly see our path, a twisted trail of dirt and trampled grass on both sides of the highway. But he flashes past without slowing, and I watch as his angry lights disappear down the road.

I sag back into my seat, ignoring the sudden trembling in my forearms. Lucky. You lucky, lucky bastard.

“So are we heading to Windsor, again?” Eric asks. Smartass.

“No, we’re not. I’m still not too thrilled about that roadblock.” As we crest the hill again, I can already see the line of cars in the distance.

“What are we going to do?”

“Give me a second, alright?” I say peevishly. After a minute, I start to slow the truck.

“You’re not going to—” Eric starts.

“You know what they say.” I flash him a grin. “Third time’s the charm.”

This time we make it across the meridian without apparent incident, and I point us eastward and get us back up to speed.

• • • •

I should be planning our crossing into the US, but I’m so numb from the evening’s entertainment that I don’t even check the map. I’m terrified that we’ll run into the cop who was chasing us, coming back west, but I don’t see him. And if he sees us, he doesn’t recognize us.

For a while I doubt I’ve got enough left to finish this. For the first half hour after the roadblock, I’m a mess, and even the thought of customs is too much for me to face. My courage—such as it is—returns very slowly. The truck’s picked up a serious rattle as well. We’re both the worse for wear tonight.

And I wonder about the kids. Maybe the roadblock had nothing to do with them. And maybe it did. Maybe there’s no one chasing them . . . but hell, maybe there is.

All of this is before I see the burning building.

I make out the emergency vehicles first, the fire trucks and the ambulance. It’s not until we’re a little closer that I see the flames, shooting into the sky from the low roof.

I slow down in the eastbound lane, riding the shoulder a bit, almost pulling over. But I don’t have to. I knew the moment I saw the first fire truck.

It’s the Bob Evans where I picked up the children.

They’re all asleep now, of course. Too much excitement, too much open road. There’s nobody to pester me with inane questions, and so the silence gives birth to a few of my own. Like, Where did the children come from, and why are the police looking for them? And, Why is the Bob Evans burning?

Or my personal favorite, Why is Joseph dead?

It’s that last one that really haunts me.

• • • •

I don’t know where I’m going, and I sure as hell don’t know how to get there, and I’m rapidly running out of gas money anyway. When my vision starts to blur I think, screw it. I pull over, cut the engine, and pull my jacket up over my shoulders.

I’m not going to catch any sleep, but I need to rest my eyes. We can’t stay long—cops’ll investigate anything stopped on the 401, and I’ve had my full of close encounters with authority tonight. I just need twenty minutes.

It’s well after midnight now. If I had money, I’d spring for a motel. But lack of money is what kicked off this whole sick enterprise, and the situation has yet to improve.

I’m not thinking this through, and I know it. I have a car full of kids who’ve left a freakin’ trail of death and destruction across the province, and that trail leads right to my door. I’m not putting the pieces together, I’ve been too distracted by my own problems, but right at the moment, the kids may be the biggest problem I’ve got.

I’m going to be late for Battle Creek. I need to find a place to make a phone call. Once I cross the border, I’ll know my ETA, maybe. Buyers are famous for panicking easily, especially during a dry spell. If I don’t call soon, this whole trip could be wasted.

I’m falling asleep. I can’t fall asleep, I need to keep moving. I should turn on the radio, find one of Toronto’s oldie stations. JP, he always mocked my taste in music. When you grew up in the ’60s, he said, music was your moral guide. It counteracted the cultural poison soaking into you every day. When the Establishment got ahold of the music business in the 70’s, it all went to hell. Music taught us what mattered in the ’60s; the only moral imperative you ever learned from that crap you listen to was you’ve got to shake it, shake it.

JP, man. I wish he were here now instead of me.

There you are, says a voice from far away.

I stir in my seat, pulling my jacket over my shoulders. There’s a cold chill seeping in from the windows.

You are very resourceful man, my young friend. Much more so than that foolish truck driver, Joseph.

Thanks, I think dreamily. Who the hell are you?

You have my children.

Your children. I see.

Yes, my children. I want them back. You’re going to bring them back to me.

Nope, nope. Can’t.

Really?

Nope. I’m taking them to Auntie’s. Promised I’d take them to Auntie’s.

The chill has spread to my legs, a weird numbness I don’t like at all. Where is this asshole? He’s here, I can hear him. I can almost make him out in the darkness.

Listen to me. This is very simple. You bring me the children, or . . .

Or what? I ask. I can almost see his face now, he’s so close.

Let me show you.

• • • •

“What’s wrong?” Stephanie says from the back seat. She’s got a fist in her eye, rubbing out the sleepies.

I’m breathing hard, clutching the dash with one hand. There’s a sharp pain in my left hand, like I hit something. The windshield? I’m disoriented, still partially asleep, but my heart is racing.

“Nothing,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”

“But why were you screaming?”

“What?”

“Why did you scream like that?”

I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Was I screaming?”

“Yeah. You said, Let go, let go.”

“I had a nightmare,” I say slowly. “I fell asleep. I’m okay. You, um . . . you go back to sleep.”

“I can’t,” she says, her voice whiney. “You woke me up.”

“I’m sorry.”

After a minute I start the car. There’s a persistent tremor in my left hand, and I let it drop in my lap. I steer us onto the road one-handed.

The clock says 2:10 am. I don’t have much gas, and the closest bridge to the US I know about is over two hours away. I’m not thinking at the moment, I’m just driving. I’m afraid to think.

“I can’t find my dolls,” Wolf Girl says after a few minutes.

“They’re. . . I dunno, they’re probably on the floor. Maybe you dropped them when you fell asleep.”

“I can’t find them.”

“Don’t worry, they’re there. I’ll turn on the overhead light in a minute and you’ll see them.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says in a voice that sounds close to tears, “Wolf Girl wants you to turn on the lights now.”

The thought of her doing her thing with those dolls is more than I can take at the moment. “I can’t. We’ll wake up the boys. We have to let them sleep, okay?”

She sulks in the back for a few minutes, until I see a flash of movement on the side of the road. It’s a deer, a young stag whose head shoots up as we approach, just before it bounds away in majestic profile in our headlights.

“Wolf Girl—did you see that?”

“She did.”

“Wasn’t it beautiful?”

“It was. It was a deer, a big one.”

“It sure was.”

“Wolf Girl wants a deer like that for her birthday.”

I laugh, a little. Some of the terrifying remnants of my dream slip away. I’m suddenly glad she’s awake, glad that I’m not alone. “Stephanie . . .”

“Her name’s Wolf Girl.”

“Sorry, Wolf Girl. What were you doing with your dolls?”

“Wolf Girl plays with them.”

“I know, I know you play, but . . .”

“What?”

“Never mind. Do the dolls talk to you?”

“Wolf Girl talks to her dolls.”

“Do they . . . do they talk back?”

“Dolls don’t talk,” she says matter-of-factly. “Just Wolf Girl.”

“Yeah, just Wolf Girl.” I feel a strange sense of relief. Dolls don’t talk. Yeah. “So are you really in the same play group as Eric and TJ? How’d you end up with this bunch?”

“’Cause of Eric.”

“Eric?”

“Yeah. Eric’s one of the Seven.”

“The seven what?”

There’s no answer. I glance back and see Wolf Girl’s got both hands clamped over her mouth, and her eyes are comically wide like she’s just slipped a big secret. But an instant later she prattles on like nothing happened. “The Seven,” she says.

“Oh. The Seven. Right, got it.”

“Eric told TJ to find me and he did, TJ found me, all the way in Scarborough. TJ can find anyone, he’s a thinker. Sometimes he talks to me while I’m thinking, like Aunt Yvonne. ’Cept she’s not really my aunt.”

I’m sorry I asked. “Your parents know where you are, Wolf Girl?”

“Not since yesterday.” She pauses for a moment. “Wolf Girl wants to see her mommy,” she says in a small voice.

“Where’s your mommy?”

“At home. In Scarborough.”

Scarborough? That’s one heck of a commute from Detroit. Scarborough was . . . geez, where the hell was Scarborough? One of the western suburbs of Toronto, I think. A couple hundred klicks from here, anyway. Any institution that brought these kids together must be some kick-ass private school.

“Well, you’ll get home soon. I’m sure your mommy wants to see you, too.” Which was undoubtedly an understatement. Any parent whose child had gone missing in Southern Ontario this season had reason to freak out. I hadn’t heard all the details of the recent murders, but I’d heard enough to know they were horrific.

“What do you have in the back?” she says.

“What?” I ask, startled.

“Why do the mean men want to look in the back of your truck?”

“I . . . I’m not sure,” I say carefully.

“But what have you got? What’s in it?”

The chill is back, fingering its way down my spinal cord. “It’s just . . . it’s just something I’m delivering. For someone.”

“You shouldn’t have it. It makes the mean men mad at you.”

My mouth is dry. “Who are the mean men, Wolf Girl?”

“They’re mean. They have mean dogs, and they have guns. They don’t want you to come into their house.”

“Into their house?”

“Into their Nighted States.”

US Customs. Jesus Jones.

I try hard to keep my voice even. “Stephanie, how do you know the mean men want to look in my trunk?”

“Her name’s Wolf Girl—”

“Sorry, Wolf—”

There’s a sudden vibration under the right wheels. I’m not paying attention, we’re drifting onto the shoulder. I grab the wheel with both hands and pull us back on the road, ready to brake if I have to.

There’s a truck coming up behind us, fast. I can’t brake. I step on the gas instead, maneuvering to let him pass. The rattle we picked up in our little excursion into the ditch returns, and I feel a vibration in the rear now.

There’s an off-ramp up ahead, leading to a barren-looking overpass. It might be time to get off, find a gas station, get out of the car for a minute. It’s time to wake up Eric, perhaps, and get some serious answers to some serious questions. No more games.

Guy behind us is coming up very fast. It’s some kind of big rig, eighteen-wheeler maybe, and he ain’t slowing at all. We’re picking up speed too, but not fast enough. His headlights grow large in the rearview mirror. Dumb drunk bastard’s going to hit us.

At the last second he swerves into the left lane, coming even with us. It’s some kind of dump truck, made of heavy steel and noise. He lets loose with the horn, a deafening BRRRNNNTTT that seems to echo ceaselessly off the dead landscape, and then he inches his way back across the center line, into our lane.

“Dammit!” I hit the brakes, but he does the same, overshooting us by only a few meters. I’m half in the exit lane now. This idiot must be drunk out of his mind. Or maybe he’s mistaken us for the Ford Explorer that killed his brother.

Eric’s awake at my side, no sign of sleep in his eyes. “It’s him,” he says, his voice strangely calm.

“Him who?” I shout, struggling to find a lane, any lane.

“The guy who’s been chasing us. That’s his truck.”

I have no time to process this, it’s taking everything I have to stay on the road. Dipshit is now only inches from my left, matching our speed perfectly as I try to slow down. I’m being squeezed mercilessly into the exit lane. Soon the lane splits off the highway, and we’re climbing towards the overpass. The dump truck drops back a bit, but it’s still there, shadowing us and riding the shoulder. I can hear the rumble of its engine like thunder behind me.

“He wants you to pull over,” Eric says calmly. “To get off the road.”

“I figured that out. Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen his face.”

“Is he dangerous?” That seems like a stupid question the instant it’s out of my mouth.

Eric stares at me, that unnatural calm still in his eyes. “He killed Joseph.”

“Okay,” I say, flexing my hands on the steering wheel. “Okay then.”

We’re halfway to the overpass. The truck has backed off a little, falling back onto the road, but it’s still very close, its rumble filling the cab. At the dark summit of the hill is a stop sign. No lights, no ramp on the other side. We’re going to have to stop, and when we stop. . .

To our left, the embankment drops down to the highway. I can’t see the slope clearly, but I don’t have to. It’s the bottom I have to worry about.

“Should I wake everyone up?” Eric asks. His calm is somehow infectious, and I feel my breathing slowing.

“They’ll all be awake in a second,” I say.

I wait as long as I can, slowing and drifting to the right. The highway looks clear, and when the stop sign is less than thirty meters away, I wrench the wheel left. We cut across the lane and slip over the top of the embankment. There’s an immediate angry blast from the truck.

We start to slide almost as soon as we hit the slope. There’s virtually no grass, just loose dirt and scrub. I switch from gas to the brakes, but can’t regain control. The truck slides hard to the left, and the heavy back end starts to drag us down the slope.

Stephanie screams. I try to straighten the wheels, but it’s useless. We’re sliding sideways down the embankment, and what little we can see of the landscape through the windshield bounces crazily as we take a series of bumps. We hit bottom and the left wheels slam against something hard, and the right side of the truck lifts off the ground. For a terrifying instant I think we’re going to flip, and then the truck rights itself with a bump.

We’re pretty shook up inside. Eric and I almost crack heads, and he ends up nearly in my lap. “You okay?” I manage, but he looks too stunned to answer immediately. My hand goes to my mouth and comes away bloody.

Someone in the back hasn’t fared so well. I hear a breathy shout that quickly escalates into a piercing scream. Somebody’s broken something. I settle Eric in his seat and take a quick look in the back. It too dark to identify faces, but my little crew seems more or less intact.

The light in the cab suddenly flares up. It’s coming from above, from the dump truck’s headlights. He’s at the lip of the embankment.

And with a sudden roar and the low groan of gears, he’s over it. Sliding towards us amidst a shower of pebbles and moonlight.

“God damn it.” I grab for the wheel. I twist the ignition, and a loud grinding tells me the engine’s already started. A rock hits the side of the Explorer, and then another. The dump truck is heading straight at us, heralded by a cascade of stone and gravel. I hear the savage BRRRNNNTTT of its horn again, like a battle charge.

“Move, move,” I shout, giving the truck as much gas as I dare.

We surge out of the narrow ditch and up unto the road. The truck’s wheels grab pavement and suddenly we’re picking up speed. In a moment, we’re under the overpass. I glance back in time to see our pursuer hit bottom and bounce, none too gently, out of the ditch, wheels seesawing unevenly in the air before coming down hard on the road. There’s the squeal of brakes as he slides across the pavement towards the ditch on the far side. The truck comes to an abrupt stop in an avalanche of gravel, twisted across both lanes.

I can’t be certain, but I think I hear its mighty engine cough and die as we speed away.

• • • •

There’s been no sign of lights in my rearview mirror for at least forty minutes when I finally slow down and pull off the highway. We’ve been on empty for the last thirty kilometers, and if I don’t hit a bathroom soon, this adventure’s going to take on an entirely new twist.

Stephen was the victim in the back seat. I’m not sure what he hit, but he’s got a wicked bump on his forehead. I didn’t drop much below 130 klicks during our escape, so I can’t do much to tend to him, but Eric does what he can from the front seat.

We pull into a brightly lit Sunoco station and I park by the pumps. “Everybody out,” I say. “We’re here five minutes, and I want everyone to use the restroom. Get a move on.”

I have a look at Stephen as he climbs out. He’s stopped crying, but his chest still hitches up as he breathes. I sit him on one knee and give him a good looking-over. “You’re going to be okay,” I say at last. “Just make sure you head hasn’t come loose, alright?”

“It’s not loose,” he says angrily, climbing off my knee and following the others to the bathrooms.

I don’t have enough cash to fill up, so I cut it off at half a tank. I’ll need some money for the bridge, I remind myself. As I’m replacing the hose, I see Stephanie hunched in the back seat.

“What’s wrong, Wolf Girl?” I ask. “Did you hurt yourself back there, too?”

She shakes her head.

“Did you go pee yet?”

She shakes her head again, vigorously this time.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need help,” she says, looking up at me.

“Ah. Okay. Got it.” I take her hand and walk her towards the bathroom. When we get close, she stops abruptly.

“I’m not going in the boy’s room,” she says firmly.

“But—”

She shakes her head again. “I’m not.”

“Okay, fine, fine.” I squeeze her hand and change course to the lady’s room. One more unexpected adventure.

When we’re done, I have just enough spare cash to buy some munchies for the road. TJ and Simon are staring at the racks of chips and chocolate bars in the Stop ’N Go with great interest, and we make a quick selection. “Let’s move, let’s move,” I say, shepherding them towards the truck with a nervous glance at the highway.

I find Eric standing on the tarmac, staring to the west. When everyone else is bundled in, I come up behind and put my hand on his shoulder.

“He’s coming,” he says simply.

I don’t question that. I just nod and stare out at the highway. The only car I can make out in the darkness is a rusty station wagon, poking along in the slow lane. “How far?”

“Just a few minutes. He’s moving fast,” he says. “He’s mad. He’s really mad this time.”

“Can you see him?”

He nods. He looks at me now, and I can see the terrible burden in his eyes. “He can see me, too. He knows where I am.”

I put my arm around him and he clings to me. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” he answers, his voice muffled against my stomach. “He can see me, he can always follow me. It is my fault.”

“Eric—Eric, listen to me.” I pick him up and he clings to me ferociously, wrapping his legs around my waist and burying his head against my shoulder. I can feel hot tears on my neck. “It’s not your fault, understand me? I may not understand what the hell’s going on, but one thing I’m pretty sure of is that you didn’t start it.”

“He’s going to catch us.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.” His voice catches and real sobs escape him. “He’s going to catch us and I can’t stop him, I’ve tried and tried, I’ve tried everything, but he can always find us and it’s my fault.”

God. Has this poor kid been chased across half of Southern Ontario with that on his shoulders? I’m amazed he’s held it together this long.

“He won’t catch you while I’m around,” I say, heading for the truck.

His reply is too muffled to hear. “What?” I say.

He lifts his head from my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “He wants to kill you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s gonna have to catch me first.”

As he wipes his nose and clambers in the truck, I take one last look down the open road. I can’t see anything, but a heightened sense of urgency grips me.

As we pull out of the station, a single set of headlights crests a hill to the west. Our tires squeal, ever so slightly, as I take the turn onto the eastbound ramp.

• • • •

The headlights have been gone for a while, but I’m compulsively checking the rearview mirror anyway. To my right, Eric seems awake, but it’s been quiet in the back seat for a while.

“You alright?” I ask Eric.

“Yeah,” he says, straightening in his seat.

“Good. Because I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“This isn’t some school trip, is it, Eric?” Out of the corner of my eye I see him shake his head.

“Uh-huh. And I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that there’s no aunt in Windsor, either?”

“No.”

“Okay. Okay, we’re getting somewhere. Where do you live? Seriously, no bullshit.”

“Kingston.”

Kingston is on the other side of Toronto, over four hours from here. Quite a hike for a junior woodchuck. “Where are your parents?”

“In Kingston. My mom’s in the hospital.”

“What for?”

“It’s complicated.”

I let it go at that. “So what’s this all about, Eric? For real.”

He’s silent for so long I think he’s not going to answer. “I can’t tell you,” he says at last.

“Well, that’s good to hear. What the hell is the problem?”

“There are rules.”

“Rules? What kind of rules?”

“Very old rules. From before I was born. Rules from . . . from the group.”

“The group? That damn play group of yours?”

“It’s not a play group.”

“What kind of group is it then? A bunch of kids?”

“Yes.”

“From your private school. An elite bunch of rich brats.”

“No! They’re not elite. We’re trying to help people.”

“Eric, is this some kind of stupid prank? Is being out on the road part of a dare, to get into the group?”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s something like that, isn’t it? Stephanie told me you were—what the hell was it—one of The Seven. Are there seven of you trying to get into this stupid group?”

He’s silent. I can tell I’ve hit a sore spot. “Eric, this is really serious stuff. I think there’s a bunch of cops looking for you, and I know there’s a very screwed up mother in a dump truck chasing you. You need to tell me. Because if you think this is still some game, you’re making a huge-ass mistake.”

“It’s not a game.”

“No kidding. Now, this is about your club, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“Are you one of the Seven?”

“Yes. The Seven are the leaders.”

“What kind of club is it?”

“It’s . . . it’s a magic club.”

“A magic club. And what do these seven do? Do you give tasks or something to the others?”

“They don’t do anything.”

“Why not?”

Silence again. I glance over and see tears rolling down his cheeks. “Eric?”

“They can’t do anything,” he says. “Because they’re all dead.”

“Eric, I really hope that’s a sick joke.”

“Cassie died in Moncton,” he continues, as if he didn’t hear me. “Ravi and Maya were killed in Brampton. Isaac died in a park in Ann Arbor, right across from his house. And Coki had just gotten back—”

“Wait a minute.”

“—from talking to Aunt Yvonne when—”

“Just shut up for a minute.”

Cassie Horowitz, nearly dismembered in her own living room in New Brunswick while her parents slept upstairs. The brother and sister in Brampton, Ontario—they had Indian names, I remember. Some poor kid mauled in a park in Michigan.

He’s describing the child murders.

“Eric, if this is a joke, I swear to God—”

“It’s not a joke.” He’s staring out at the open road, and the tears run freely down his cheeks. “They were my friends, and now they’re dead.”

“Eric, the papers said the killings were random. None of the children knew each other.”

“The Order was secret. The papers don’t know; nobody knows.”

“What were you doing in this damn club?”

“Two weeks ago, we tried . . . just after the killings started. We tried to find out who was doing them.”

“You tried to solve the child murders? How?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“What the hell did you use? Ancient club secrets? Magic?”

He dries his tears with his sleeve. “Something like that.”

“So did you find him? The child murderer?”

“Yes,” he says, very quietly.

“No shit. Who?”

He stares at me, his eyes red and his face expressionless, until realization dawns on me at last. “No way. The spaz in the dump truck?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s the murderer?”

“Yes. After we found him, he tracked down Cassie first. And then . . .”

“He killed the others, and now he’s after you.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you have a plan? What were you going to do, magic him to death?”

“We did have a plan. But . . . he’s not . . . It didn’t work. We still don’t know why. He’s not a normal person.”

We drive in silence for a while. I’m not sure what parts of this to believe. “So what happened to Joseph?” I ask at last.

“Joseph picked us up in Toronto. The killer had almost caught up to us, and Joseph helped us get away. TJ talked to him, and said he would help us.”

“TJ talked to him?”

“Not out loud. TJ doesn’t talk to grown-ups. It’s hard to explain . . . but TJ knew he would help us, and he did. Joseph got us just west of London.”

“Before the killer caught up to you again?”

“Yeah. Twice he almost ran us off the road. Joseph finally got ahead of him, but he was getting closer. Joseph dropped us at the restaurant, then got back on the road before he could see we’d stopped.”

“He dropped you at the restaurant where I picked you up. The Bob Evans.”

“Yes. But the killer never stays fooled for long. He was coming back to the restaurant after he caught Joseph. He must have got there just after we left.”

“And destroyed the place,” I mutter, thinking of flames dancing on the roof.

“What?”

“Never mind. Why’d you tell me you were headed to Windsor?”

“Because that’s where you were going,” he says simply.

That makes too much sense to question. “So where are you really headed, Eric? Where are you running to?”

“We have to find Aunt Yvonne. She can hide us. He can’t find us if we get to her first.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Only TJ knows, he talks to her. She’s trying to find us, too, but . . .”

“Yeah, you’re a hard target to keep up with. In the meantime, you just keep running.”

“Right.”

The road flashes past. The clock says 3:36 am. We’re using the last of my gas, running in what will probably turn out to be the wrong direction, while our navigator snoozes in the back.

“What are you going to do?” Eric asks.

“I don’t know. To be honest, I’m not sure how much of this I believe. It’s a lot to swallow, Eric, especially coming from a bunch of kids, y’know? Murderers, secret clubs, magic . . .”

“I know,” he says. There’s no criticism in his voice.

“But it seems the first thing to do is to get the hell off the highway. We’re using gas, and I can’t afford to get more until I get to Michigan.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe we get some rest, and then wake up TJ and see what he says.”

“What about . . .” He glances behind meaningfully.

“Mr. Chuckles? Don’t worry about him. He’s ten minutes behind us, at least. We can slip off the road and find a good resting spot for a few minutes.”

“We can’t stop. He’ll find us.”

“Just for a minute, while we talk to TJ.”

Eric doesn’t look convinced, but the steadily creeping gas gauge is all the convincing I need. I keep an eye on the upcoming exits, and soon see a good candidate. Highway 14, winding south into a thick stand of trees. I don’t bother signaling, but glide down the off ramp and blow through the stop sign at the bottom, heading south. The last glimpse of I have of the highway is completely clear in both directions; no headlights, no dump trucks. But I don’t breathe easy until we’re in the woods.

• • • •

It’s 4:01 when I finally pull over. We’re on an unmarked country road off the 14, and I’m maybe a little lost. There’s been no traffic for miles. Eric is dead out at my side, and my eyelids are getting pretty droopy, too.

I should wake up TJ and Eric, but instead I lean back and rest my eyes for a minute. There’s no streetlights on this stretch of road, and when I kill the engine the silence is total. Overhead the sky is cold and clear, a perfect night for stargazing.

I’m not asleep for very long when I hear her voice. Mister Lassiter, she says. Wake up, Mister Lassiter.

Mmmph. Who the hell are you?

My name is Yvonne.

Auntie! I feel the urge to giggle.

Yes. The children sometimes call me Aunt Yvonne. I am their protector.

Some protector. Where the hell are you? You know they’re being chased by a knife-wielding psycho?

Yes.

Yeah, well, you better hustle some Auntie butt. I need to be on my way, and you’re my relief.

I’m not far. But he is closer, much closer. You need to wake up, Mr. Lassiter.

If I wake up, will I be able to talk to you?

No. We wouldn’t be able to talk now, if TJ was not assisting me. He’s been trying to wake you for several minutes.

Screw TJ. I want some answers. Where the hell am I supposed to meet you?

I’ll find you. You mustn’t stop, for any reason. It’s too dangerous.

Why? Is the baby killer going to axe me, too? I thought he only had the balls to threaten children.

The killer is far worse than you imagine. He is ferocious and unnatural. Don’t be tricked into facing him, he’ll destroy you without a second thought.

Scary. How do we get away from him?

You can’t. He can sense Eric wherever he goes. Eric is the last of the Seven; he’s all that’s left of a noble and secret order that’s existed for longer than you might easily believe. Eric is meant to be found, that’s his gift.

Y’know, you’re not making sense, Auntie.

The Seven were gatherers, Mr. Lassiter. For a few years before adulthood, they are sensitive enough to find those precious children with the gift, and to gather them into the Order. They are meant to be found. The killer knows this, knows how to follow the same signs children do. He can follow Eric wherever he flees.

How do you know all this? Isn’t it super-secret or something?

That’s not important.

You used to be one, didn’t you? One of the Seven.

Very astute. Yes, I was once one of the Seven. I was like TJ, a thought-caster. If you bring Eric to me, I can shield him. Without him, the killer cannot find the others. But you have to hurry.

He’s not going to catch me. I’m faster than he is.

It’s not a matter of speed, not anymore. You’ve been asleep too long. You’re being herded now. Remember—you mustn’t stop, not for anything. Not until I can reach you.

Okey-dokey. No stopping.

One more thing. And this is crucially important, do you understand?

I got you. Spit it out.

You must protect the younger children, all of them, if the Order is to have any hope of survival. But at all costs, Stephanie mustn’t fall into the enemy’s hands. She is what he desires above all else, and he must not have her.

Wolf Girl? I thought this was about Eric.

Eric is a very brave young man, but he knows this isn’t about him. He’s risked everything to protect the children. There’s too much you don’t understand, and no time to tell you.

Christ, tell me already.

I can’t. But listen—the man chasing you is a savage killer, but he’s ultimately just a puppet.

A puppet? Who’s pulling his strings?

Someone vastly more dangerous. An ancient enemy who wants what the Seven have gathered.

The children.

Yes. Like the Seven, he gathers those with gifts. Those he’s obtained are now his slaves, like the killer chasing you. He has servants everywhere, even among the police. He won’t stop until he has the children in his possession. And if he should ever possess one with Stephanie’s gifts . . .

Let me guess. Floods, calamities, Dow plunging below 5000.

Oh, yes. All that and more. Have you been contacted, Mr. Lassiter? Has someone reached into your mind?

No. I don’t know. Once, while I was sleeping, I heard a voice.

Then he’s found you. His voice will grow stronger, and soon you’ll obey him as well. You have very little time left.

There’s someone shaking me.

It’s time to wake up, Mr. Lassiter. He is almost upon you.

I open my eyes to see TJ leaning over me, a hand on my shoulder and a worried look on his face. I stretch and regret it instantly. Sleeping upright in a cold truck has done something horrible to my spine. TJ shakes me again.

“I’m up! Jesus, I’m up already.” TJ backs off.

I groan and scratch my chin, then surrender to a bout of shivering. Man, I’m cold. I can hear the wind howling through the trees. It can’t be much warmer in here than it is out there. Maybe it’s the cold giving me all these weird dreams.

When I can focus, I glance at the dash clock. 5:18 am. Can that be right? How could I have slept so long? It’s still black as pitch outside, and I can hear a gentle symphony of snoring from the back seat.

“Looks like you and I are the only ones up, TJ,” I say with a yawn. “Whadaya say, huh?”

TJ’s eyes are fixed on the rearview mirror. There’s two tiny pinpricks of light, distant headlights far behind us.

“That’s probably nothing,” I tell him. “We lost him on the highway. No reason to freak out.” But all of a sudden there’s a crawling sensation in my belly.

The headlights slowly grow in the mirror. In the back seat, TJ makes a low moaning sound.

“Stay with me, TJ buddy. That’s just some milk truck. But what do you say we hit the road anyway?”

He nods emphatically. I pat my pockets for my keys, and come up empty. “TJ, grab my jacket, will you? My keys are in the pocket.”

TJ doesn’t move. I grope the seat beside me, feeling Eric’s slumbering form. “C’mon, TJ, my jacket. Now, buddy.” In the mirror, the headlights continue their approach, and the light in the truck begins to brighten.

I spot my jacket on the floor. I grab it quickly, jamming my hands in the pockets. No keys. “Damn it.”

The cab gets brighter. Lord he’s moving up fast. “TJ, have you seen—”

A small arm slips over the seat, pointing at the steering column. My keys dangle from the ignition. I grab them and the truck starts with a roar.

I glance in the mirror. He’s close now, too close to risk pulling out in front of. I’ll have to wait until he passes. Suddenly I hear the sound of his engine, and feel a cold certainty settle in my gut.

Just as TJ’s small hand grips my shoulder, I floor it and pull us out unto the road, into the path of the oncoming juggernaut. There’s no squeal of brakes, no waver in those headlights at all. Just the hungry BRRRNNNTTT of a horn, announcing that the chase is on again.

The truck rapidly closes the distance as we pick up speed. Fifty kph. Eighty. He doesn’t slow, narrowing the gap between until it’s clear he’s going to hit us.

I grip the wheel, ready to take us into the left lane, into the path of oncoming traffic and out of the way of the madman. “Come on baby, come on.” My foot’s to the floor, and the truck’s engine roars in response. 100 klicks. 110. He’s right behind us now, the glare of his headlights bathing the truck in harsh relief.

I glance at the speedometer. 125. We’re riding the centerline, clinging to the road as he lets loose with the horn once more. In frustration this time. 130. 135. He’s not gaining any more.

Slowly, slowly, we start to pull ahead. The horn sounds again, enraged.

My passengers are awake. In the back, there’s a lot of confused cries, and poor Stephanie is on the edge of losing it. But at my side I see Eric, braced against the dash and facing me. Kid is awake and has it together.

“Good morning,” I say. “Sleep well?”

“Where are we?”

“Y’know, I’m not really sure. Somewhere off highway 14.”

“How’d he catch us?”

“I think I must have passed out for a few minutes.”

He takes that calmly. He looks back at our pursuer, and I see him in profile in the stark lighting. For an instant he doesn’t look seven years old, and I see the adult face already emerging in his jaw line and cheekbones. Rugged and handsome, but touched with sadness. Yeah, he’s gonna get chicks, no doubt about it.

“Speed up,” he says.

“Eric, gimme a break here. I’m barely staying on the road as it is.”

It’s true. This old country highway is pretty straight, but with its share of dips and blind hills. As we top each one I’m terrified we’ll meet someone in our lane, a patch of ice, or a deer. And sooner or later, the road is going to turn.

“He’s gaining on us.”

“No he’s not.” We’re holding at 135, but I can’t maintain that speed for long. Not on this road. It’ll kill us, sure as that dump truck will. We need to find our way back to the highway.

What was it Yvonne had said in my dream? You’re being herded. What did that mean? Dream or not, the suggestion was unnerving.

We take another hill, and our headlights reveal more frozen Canadian forest. And not far ahead, a sharp turn to the right.

“A turn!” Eric shouts. “Slow down!”

“I need distance,” I say with a grimace.

“What?”

“He’s too close! I need to be further ahead of him.”

I time it as best I can. When we close half the distance to the turn, I slam on the brakes. Not enough to lock up, but the back end of the truck shudders in complaint.

The dump truck doesn’t brake. He sounds the horn again triumphantly, eating up the distance between us in seconds. We’re going to hit.

I swerve into the oncoming lane, but it’s no good. He follows smoothly. I swerve back, stepping on the brakes again.

And suddenly we’re at the turn, too fast, too fast. The tires squeal and I try to keep us in our lane but fail, swinging wide into the left lane again. If there’s oncoming traffic, it’s all over.

The lane is empty. I struggle with the truck but keep us on the road—barely—pulling us back into the right lane.

Behind us, nimble Charlie does not fare so well.

The results are spectacular. There’s the loud screech of brakes, far too late, as he enters the turn, and he leaves the road in an explosion of noise and gravel. He plunges into the dark stand of trees and we hear a series of angry cracks as he goes toe-to-toe with ancient Canadian timber.

“Whooo-wee!” I shout, slapping my palms on the wheel. “Oh mama, that’s gonna leave a mark.”

Eric’s watching out the back window, his expression cautious. “Should we stop?”

“Screw that. Are you out of your mind?”

“We should see if he’s still alive.”

“When we get to Auntie’s, we’ll send him a card.”

“If he’s alive, he’ll keep coming.”

“If he does, he’s hitchhiking, baby. Now sit down and buckle up.”

He sits, groping for his belt. “Where are we going?”

That curbs my celebration a bit. “Ehhh, yeah. Well, that depends on where we are, exactly.”

“You don’t know?”

“We’re . . . we’re kinda parallel to the 401. Pretty much, I think. We need to find a crossroad to get back to the highway.”

“Or ask for directions.”

“Yeah, we could do that. Hey, how’d everybody make out in the back?”

We seem to have come through okay, though it takes a while for Stephanie to get over the violent awakening. We travel through the early morning darkness for a while in good spirits. There’s still no traffic on the road, but I don’t see anything that looks like a route back to the highway. I’m starting to doubt that we’re parallel to the 401 anymore.

“Should we turn around?” Eric asks.

As decent a suggestion as any. But the thought of backtracking to the crash site creeps me out a little. “There’s bound to be a town or crossroads soon,” I say.

And for once, I’m right. Ten minutes later, we see an Esso station, squatting at an intersection. The road divides into two lanes and up ahead I spot a marker for Highway 20, and an arrow pointing left for the 401.

“See? Told you. Always trust your uncle Pierre.”

“Wait,” says Eric.

“We should get some gas, though,” I muse, looking at the gauge. “I’ve got a couple bucks I was saving for the bridge.”

“Wait, listen,” he says.

“Listen to what?”

“Can’t you hear it?”

I can hear it. A clank and rumble, getting louder. It sounds like . . . I glance in the rearview mirror but there’s nothing, nothing but a long dark shadow.

“Christ!” I shout, swerving to the right. The shadow lumbers past, narrowly missing us on the left, its brakes hissing.

“It’s him,” Stephen says in wonder.

It is him. In our headlights, we can see the truck is a wreck, with deep scoring on the right side and missing at least one of its ten tires. A broken branch, stripped of leaves, juts out from the undercarriage. The cab looks half-smashed, and I can see broken windows. But it’s still running, and as it slows, it swerves to cut us off from the intersection.

“He had his lights off,” Eric whispers.

He’s trying to pinch us off the road. Up ahead to the right is an exit lane leading to the gas station; I gun the engine and we ride the shoulder for a moment, before we’re in the lane and heading off the road.

“Don’t stop,” Eric says. “We shouldn’t stop, not for anything.”

“We haven’t got much choice. We stop here, and I’m going to have the attendant call the cops.”

There are no other cars at the station, but at least the place is well lit. Two rows of pumps line the pavement in front of the Quickie Mart, and a pair of eighteen-wheelers sit idle on the south side. I pull up close to the door and kill the ignition.

“What are you going to do?” Simon asks.

I sit quietly for a moment, scanning the empty lot. There’s no sign of the dump truck. Probably he avoids public places. Maybe he’s shy.

“Lock the door when I get out,” I say, pulling on my hat.

“Where are you going?” asks Eric nervously.

“Just into the gas station. I’ll keep the truck in sight the whole time.”

“Don’t go,” says Stephen from the back seat.

“I’ll only be a minute. I’m going to report the crash, see if a few cops on the road scare this guy off.”

“I can’t see him,” Eric says, craning his neck to look out my window.

“I know. Lock the truck.”

The slam of the car door echoes strangely across the empty lot. Frost crunches under my feet as I make my way towards the glass doors. The station is eerily quiet. I can’t hear any sounds from the road, and the glare of the overhead lights makes it tough to make out anything in the darkness beyond. I cross to the door, keeping my eyes on the perimeter, half expecting to see the dump truck come barreling towards us out of the darkness.

I pull at the door of the Quickie Mart, but it’s locked. “What the hell?” For the first time I notice that the lights are off inside.

“Come on, it can’t be closed.” I push my face to the glass and shield my eyes with my hands, peering into the shadows. There’s some kind of goop sprayed on the inside glass, I can’t see—

I step away abruptly. It’s not goop. It’s splattered blood.

Inside the doors, only a few feet away, a man is sprawled face down on the floor. He’s half in shadow, but there’s enough light to see more than I need to. He’s dead. He’s very dead.

I back away from the door, sickened. With a start I twist and look in all directions at once. My breath is coming in short quiet gasps. On the ground I see a mark. A single bloody footprint, leading away from the doors towards the parked rigs.

He’s been here already. This is where he wanted us to be, where he was herding us to.

But how? Could he have done all this while I was asleep?

There’s a sound from the direction of the pumps. I move closer to the truck, picking up the pace.

Before I get there, I see the dump truck. It’s stopped about a hundred meters away, parked across the exit lane from the gas station. The engine is dead, and its lights are still off. One of the headlights has been smashed.

It’s really a wreck. It’s lost both side mirrors, and the windshield’s taken a couple direct hits. Deep gouges score the metal sides. The front grill is broken, and I can make out a small puddle already forming under the front wheels. It’s gotta be leaking from half a dozen places. It’s a miracle the thing made it this far.

And then I spot the driver. He’s by the far pumps, limping unsteadily towards us.

Dude is messed up. He’s holding a stiff left leg with both hands, and blood is running freely from a nasty gash in his thigh. His forehead’s cut up bad, and his shirt is ripped in multiple places. I can hear his ragged breathing from here.

I could turn around now, get in the truck and drive away. But the sight of this pathetic little man really pisses me off. He’s hobbled halfway to the second set of pumps before I intercept him.

“That’s far enough,” I say.

He stops, seeming to see me for the first time. Jesus, up close he’s even worse. He’s a scrawny thing, five-foot-five maybe and not much more than 120 pounds. The right lens of his glasses is completely missing, and the left is fractured in three places. He squints up at me unsteadily, and it takes a second for him to catch his breath.

“You got my kids,” he says.

“Your kids.” I have to suppress a laugh. “Mister, you are just full of surprises.”

“This isn’t any of your business,” he says, pain evident in his voice.

“That’s funny. Usually when someone tries to run me off the road, it is my goddamn business.”

“If you’re smart, you’ll get out of the way.”

“So is this what makes you feel like a big man?” I say. “Threatening children? Why don’t you try it with someone a little bigger for once?”

He avoids my gaze, bending down and bracing his leg again. He’s scared of me. He grimaces and takes another painful step, trying to move around me.

Behind me, I hear the creak of a car door opening. The kids? They can’t be getting out, they’re not that stupid. I want to check it out, but don’t intend to turn my back on this guy, no matter how banged up he is. Instead I move to block him again, sticking my face in his. “Don’t have the courage for that, huh? It’s gotta be children? Is that what gets you off, you stupid prick—”

He hits me so fast I don’t even see it. I go down with a surprised wooof, clutching my stomach. He’s strong, a lot stronger than he looks. I sit on my butt and try to catch my breath.

He’s leaning over me now, his hands at his sides. Not as injured as he looked, either. Blood trickles down his cheek as he sneers at me. “Last chance. Gonna be smart, asshole?”

“Yeah,” I say, and kick his knee as hard as I can.

He screams in anger and pain as I roll to the right, scrambling to my feet. He swings clumsily at me but misses. I dance away, spinning to face him. Ferocious killer or not, I’m going to kick his skinny little ass. I haul back my pitching arm, and then freeze.

He’s changing.

There’s no other word for it. I stand transfixed as his arms tremble and then bend inwards. His face is disfigured with pain, and I watch as the skin ripples and tightens, pulling away from his teeth. The flesh on his forearms darkens, and then seems to split. A moment ago he was a blood-soaked cripple, and now he’s . . .

I don’t know what he is, but it scares the hell out of me. I curse and run.

I make it halfway to the truck before something knocks me down from behind. The fall is painful, and I damn near wreck my knee. I hobble upright, glancing around in a panic, then turn to the truck.

He’s standing between me and the kids, hunched over almost double. The skin on his face is bruised and black, and his teeth are far, far too long and white. His arms are long and inhumanly thin, and his skin has split in dozens of places, but there’s no blood. He’s like some great hairless ghoul, and he stares at me with cold white eyes.

“Stupid prick,” he hisses, just before he tears my stomach open.

It’s more painful than anything I’ve ever known, and when he’s done, I’m writhing on the ground covered in blood, gasping and trying desperately to keep my guts from spilling out. Satisfied, he moves to the truck.

I hear him demolishing it, the sounds of shattering glass and screaming metal. My right leg is spasming, and it’s getting hard to draw a breath. The pool of blood under my stomach is growing, and I can see wisps of steam as it slowly spreads over the frozen pavement. The pain is awful but there’s a numbness now, a numbness that starts in my hands and is spreading to my whole body. My vision is starting to blur.

I lift my head a little and see the thing that was once human circling the truck, enraged. Are the children inside? It’s getting harder to think. I raise a hand to my face, and it’s so covered in blood I can’t see my fingers at all.

I sag back onto the cold ground and wait to die.

I can’t die yet, there’s someone in my head.

Mr. Lassiter.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Go away.

Mr. Lassiter, get up.

TJ? Is that you?

Yes.

Where are you?

With the others. We’re behind the big trucks in the yard. Eric’s trying to keep everyone quiet, but Stephanie’s crying.

You got out of the truck?

Eric made us get out when he saw the killer coming. You have to get up, Mr. Lassiter.

I can’t! I’m dying, TJ. I’m lying here holding my guts in my hands.

Eric says he barely hit you.

Tell Eric he’s full of shit! I’m covered in blood!

But there isn’t any blood. Mr. Lassiter, I can see you from here. There’s no blood.

But—

There’s an ear-splitting scream of rage from the truck. I hear the crack of ice as the ghoul-thing limps over to me. Its hand digs into my shoulder and it yanks me up.

“Where are they?” it hisses.

“I dropped them off,” I gasp. “With their aunt. Over an hour ago!”

“You’re lying.” The talons pierce my shoulder. “I can smell them.”

“Ow. Ow!” I twist in his grip, try to push away. He stumbles, then grabs me again.

“Tell me where they are.”

It’s Eric. He knows Eric is nearby. What had Yvonne said? He could always find Eric.

“I dropped them off . . . all except Eric. He’s the only one here.”

He releases me abruptly, then stands and sniffs the air. He leans over me, pressing a talon into my throat.

“Call him.”

I swallow painfully, staring back at him. After a moment the talon drifts towards my eye. I feel it digging into the soft skin of my cheek.

“Call him.”

“Eric,” I say hoarsely.

“Louder.”

“Eric!”

The lot is silent. I can hear the wind blowing a tarp somewhere, and the steady background hum of the big fluorescent lights.

“Eric!” I call again. “It’s okay. You can come out!”

Suddenly the creature tenses, staring south. The talon at my eye wavers, then pulls away.

It’s Eric. He’s approaching us slowly, walking away from the big rigs. The wind pulls at his shirttail.

“No,” I whisper. “Eric, you stupid, stupid . . .”

The creature straightens, almost losing its balance for a moment. One claw goes out to the pump to steady itself. It moves away, taking an eager step towards the approaching boy. Where its hand clutched the pump, it leaves a bloody mark.

“Come here, boy,” it breathes. Eric comes closer, taking short, measured steps across the lot.

But I’m staring at the bloody handprint on the pump. There’s something important, something not right about that print, if only I can get my brain to work. Why is there a mark at all, if the creature’s not bleeding?

The ghoul-thing takes another eager step forward. He’s limping. And on the ground where he stood, there’s a bloody footprint.

He is bleeding. I can’t see it, but he’s bleeding. And he’s still limping and unsteady. Monster or not, he’s still a battered cripple.

I try to stand up.

It’s hard at first. With every movement my insides threaten to tumble out. But I get one knee under me, and then another. I lean against the pump to steady myself. And then, miraculously, I’m on my feet.

I look down. There’s no puddle of blood. Just cold pavement and a single bloody handprint. I tear my hands away from my stomach, staring at them. Which one is bleeding?

I hear Eric’s footsteps stop. He’s standing not ten meters from the creature. The thing hunches in front of him, a mass of bone and tortured muscle, its breath escaping in great steamy clouds.

“Hello, Colin,” Eric says.

“You know this piece of garbage?” I ask, my jaw slack.

Eric glances at me. “Yes. It’s Colin Boatner. He used to be a member of the Order, a long time ago.”

“Where are they?” hisses Colin. He’s ignoring me, all his senses are focused on Eric. I take a hesitant step forward, still clutching my stomach. There’s no blood, I tell myself fiercely. He hardly hit you.

Eric stares at the creature, his face expressionless. “We dropped them off with Aunt Yvonne an hour ago. Pierre and I are the only ones here.”

The creature howls its fury, and I take a step closer. Good boy, Eric. Keep it up.

“Where are the children?!” Colin shouts at Eric. “Where is the Wolf Girl? You take me to them!”

I take another step. There’s no blood. He’s just a cowardly cripple. It’s now or never.

With every ounce of strength I have, I kick Colin’s injured leg from behind. “Run, Eric!” I shout.

The Colin thing screams and drops to one knee. For an instant, I glimpse his face, his human face. His glasses are gone, and his features are contorted in agony. Then he’s up again and the ghoul is back, twisted and enraged.

I stumble backwards. “Keep away from me. I know what you are, you fake.”

He lunges forward, plunging his claw into my torn stomach. When he pulls it out, it’s clutching twisted intestines and bloody tissue.

“You’re going to die in agony,” he says.

I’m in agony already. I fall to my knees, trying to scream but unable to find breath. My trembling hands desperately cradle the gaping wound. My mouth is a wide O, unable to make a sound.

Distantly I hear the creature move away, and the sound of running. My world is rapidly getting smaller. I look down and see blood and intestines bubbling into my helpless hands. My limbs feel cold.

It’s not real, I think stupidly. There’s no blood.

Blood is spilling steadily to the ground. The hole in my stomach stretches nearly nine inches. It’s just a scratch.

I look at my truck. Focus on the truck. There’s a wrench in the glove compartment. A weapon. But my legs won’t move, and the pool of blood around me grows ever larger.

The sound of running has stopped, and from somewhere I hear Eric scream.

I start to crawl towards the truck.

I pace my breathing as I go. One breath in, six inches forward. I crawl with my legs and right hand, using my left to hold my bleeding torso together. I stop to rest twice, overcome by a wave of dizziness. The blood flow from my stomach has slowed, seeping between my fingers, slicking my legs and chest.

Five meters from the truck I stop and look back. I see my trail across the frost, marked by scuff marks and the occasional bloody handprint. But there’s no river of blood. There’s no blood at all.

I’m not hurt. I’m not hurt. Get up. Stand up, you son of a bitch. Get up now.

I twist my right arm under and rock up on all fours. I feel something shift in my stomach, and fresh blood pours from the wound. I close my eyes and let go with my left hand. I get it under me, pushing myself up. I hear something splatter to the pavement.

Get up. Get up, you sack of shit—

Taking three deep breaths, I stand up.

The world is spinning. I stumble for the truck, slamming forcefully into the side panel. The pain in my stomach is excruciating. I look back at the pavement, but there’s no blood.

Lies. It’s all lies.

I tear my eyes away and reach for the door.

Inside the truck is empty and, as far as I can see, undamaged. I grope for the glove compartment, yank it open. From somewhere nearby I hear Eric yell, “Let go of me.”

There’s nothing in the glove compartment but maps and papers. I tear them out, furious. No wrench. Nothing. My fingers probe deeper, find a pen, an ice scrapper, a paperback book. Nothing, it’s all useless, and I almost sob in frustration.

My fingers close over something small and cold. Plastic. I pull it out and stare at it. Yes. Yes, this I can use.

As I’m climbing out of the truck, I spot one of Stephanie’s dolls. Peeking out from under the seat. On impulse, I grab it as well. I leave the truck behind and start walking, unsteadily at first, towards the pumps.

TJ. TJ! Come on buddy, I know you’re there.

I’m here, Mr. Lassiter.

Good boy. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Are the others with you?

We’re all together, except for Eric. But Mr. Lassiter, the thing, he’s got Eric—

I know. I need you to do something for me.

What?

You got Yvonne on the other line, or something?

She’s coming. She’s coming fast. But she won’t be here for—

Never mind that. I need you to tell her something.

What?

Tell her to stop and call the police. Tell her to do it right now.

But—

No buts. Tell her to call the police, and inform them there’s been a murder at the Esso station on route 20, just south of the 401. Got it?

Yes.

You sure? Word for word?

I won’t forget.

Good. One more thing. You get the others, and you tell them to sit tight. You stay behind those trucks no matter what happens. No matter what. Understood?

Yes. No matter what.

You got it. Over and out.

• • • •

Colin is by the pumps. He’s holding Eric with one great black hand, and one by one his talons are digging furrows in Eric’s cheek.

“Let him go,” I say.

The creature turns towards me lazily. “I’m not done with him yet.”

“You’re done with him now.” I’m walking more steadily. I stop in front of them and plant my feet in the frost.

Eric stares at me. Tears have made tracks through the blood on his face. His lips are moving. No, he’s trying to say. No, don’t.

“Let him go, Colin. Now.”

“He’s going to tell me where the children are. He knows, he has to know. It’s what he does.”

In the back of my mind, I realize I’ve heard those words before. Wolf Girl, in the back of the truck. She played out this scene with her dolls, twelve hours ago.

“I’ll tell you where the children are,” I say. “They’re over there behind those trucks.”

Eric’s eyes bulge. His legs kick feebly. I can see it in his eyes. Brave Eric. He wouldn’t have told. He was prepared to die, and not tell.

“You’re lying,” Colin says. But he looks uncertain. The pocket knife in his hand wavers.

I hold up Stephanie’s doll. “She’s here. Colin. She’s not far at all.”

“Where is she?” he demands, turning red. “Where is the girl who sees the future?” The cuts on his face are still open, and his neck is streaked with blood.

“I can see you, Colin. Your disguise is slipping. I don’t think you’re focusing any more.”

He’s standing now, but he’s still got one hand dug into Eric’s shoulder. There’s almost nothing left of the ghoul-image now, except a black shadow on his arms. There are no talons, there never were. The only thing he holds is a tiny pocket knife.

“Where is she?”

“I told you. Let the boy go, and I’ll take you.”

He glances down at Eric. And with a casual flip of his knife, he opens the boy’s throat.

Eric makes a strangled sound. Both hands go to his neck, but they can’t staunch the flow of blood. It bubbles between his fingers as he tries to speak. Colin releases him and he stumbles towards me.

I reach out to him. “Take my hand, Eric.”

He stares at me, betrayal and panic in his eyes. Brave Eric, who would have died to protect the children. His jaw works but he makes no sound.

“Eric, take my hand. Do it.” I step towards him.

“Where is she?” Colin says threateningly.

“It’s not true, Eric. None of it. He’s a coward and a liar. Take my hand and I’ll show you.”

Eric takes one more faltering step. He reaches towards me with blood-soaked fingers and takes my hand.

There’s no blood on his neck. There’s a single shallow cut, poorly aimed, made with a dull pocket knife. Eric puts his fingers to it gingerly, then looks up at me with eyes wide.

“He lies, Eric,” I tell him. “It’s all lies. You understand?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

I’m turning to Colin when he slaps me across the face. My skin rips open where his nails

—claws—

dig into me. I stumble back against the pump. It’s an old-style pump, solid and rounded, without a credit card reader.

Colin is changing again. It’s different this time. Not ghoul-like; bigger. Hairy and muscular, with an elongated muzzle and teeth. A werewolf with a rich silver mane.

“I see you, Colin,” I say, stepping away from the pump to face him. “Your little disguises don’t work anymore. And do you know what I see?”

Eric spots what I have in my hand and backs away. Colin snorts and shuffles towards me, eager for blood.

“I see a tiny little man who’s lost his glasses,” I say, and let him have it full in the face with the hose.

Gasoline splatters in his eyes, in his mouth, and over his face. It splashes on me, too, which I hadn’t counted on. Colin screams and claws at his eyes as I shut off the hose and leap back, looking to see where it all landed.

Colin is on his hands and knees. He coughs gasoline and takes a slow shuddering breath.

“I’m going to kill you,” he says.

Something strange is happening to the horizon. It’s starting to twist and ripple at the edges. I’m suddenly not sure of my footing. “Colin, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to tear your eyes out. I’m going to cut you apart with my little knife.” He’s starting to get up. Every place he touches little tentacles sprout, grasping feelers with blood red suckers that writhe and grow as they blister out of the earth.

“I’m going to—”

“Jesus, shut up already.” I flick the lighter I took from the glove compartment, and turn the hose into a flamethrower.

It’s a sloppy weapon, but more than adequate. Colin is engulfed in flame. He shrieks, a cry that escalates into a lengthy screech as he madly pummels the blaze. His hands come away engulfed in flame. For a moment he looks like a stuntman in an action pic, his clothes aflame and his eyes comically wide, and then his hair catches and he becomes a genuine human torch. His hands keep pounding madly for a few seconds and then go to his face, just before he stumbles to his knees.

The sky is the color of badly mixed red paint, melting in great thick globs. Colin is changing shapes rapidly, faster than I can follow, twisted things that don’t belong in the world. For an instant, his features freeze and I see an old man, ancient beyond reckoning. Hatred boils from his eyes as he mouths, “Children. Bring me the children.” Then Colin twitches one last time and I see nothing but black smoke and a knotted frame as he tumbles to the ground, igniting the small puddles of gasoline splattered at his feet.

I jumped back the moment the flame hit, shutting off the hose, but small flaming embers—bits of clothing and hair—fill the air and I spend a nervous minute making sure my gas-splattered clothes don’t come into contact with open flame. I replace the hose with jittery hands and look around for Eric.

He’s standing beside the flaming wreck that was once Colin Boatner. Most of the gasoline has burned off already, but flames and smoke still dance over the body and he’s surrounded by burning pockets of fuel. The landscape has returned to normal, and with a start I realize that the sun is coming up, over the timberline to the east.

“Eric,” I say, as gently as I can.

“Yes?” His eyes don’t move from the body.

“Go get the others. And hurry, okay?”

I hear the first siren just as I finish gassing the truck. By the time we reach the road, I see three sets of flashing lights, snaking their way south from the direction of the 401. We pass all three cop cars on our way to the highway, and none of them bothers with us.

• • • •

He contacts me before I’ve even left Canada, as Yvonne warned me he might. It’s the middle of the afternoon this time, while I’m wide awake.

Congratulations, Mr. Lassiter. I didn’t think anyone could stop Colin when he was angered, but you’ve proven me wrong.

You again. Going to send me more nightmares?

The time for that is past, I’m afraid. Not that they were very effective, I see. You’re a very lucky, very resourceful man, Mr. Lassiter. I believe you must have a touch of the gift yourself, thought of course you’re too old to know it. What a splendid member of the Order you would have made.

What’s your deal, asshole? What is it you want?

I want the children. And I will find them, someday. Yvonne can’t hide Eric forever.

Not while I’m around, you won’t.

I’m afraid you won’t be involved much longer.

Oh, I’m not going anywhere. Just one quick delivery, and I’ll be back.

Don’t be so certain. I can’t really impede you at this distance, I’m sorry to say. But I can make certain this is the last time you’ll interfere. In fact, I already have. You won’t be seeing the children again. Unless you care to tell me where they are?

Blow me.

I thought as much. Goodbye, Mr. Lassiter. And by all means, do drive safely. And with that his presence is gone, like a dry fart in a summer breeze.

I get as far as the Telegraph Road exit in Detroit before I realize I can’t remember the color of Wolf Girl’s hair. It’s strange, but I can’t stop. If I have any hope of salvaging this deal, I need to get to Battle Creek today.

I turn around in Jackson, when I realize I can’t recall Stephen’s brother’s name. In the suburbs of Detroit, I stop at a drugstore and buy a pad of paper and a pen. I sit in my truck jotting down everything I still remember. The sound of fear in Eric’s voice, the way Yvonne smiled, young and surprisingly beautiful, as the children ran to her. When it gets dark, I stash my cargo behind a dumpster and take the bridge back to Canada, heading into Windsor, uncertain if I’m ever coming this way again. I stop to get a bite and look at my notes.

Nothing I’ve written in the first few pages makes sense to me. I’m no longer sure why I turned around, why I committed financial suicide to race back to Canada. I’m no longer sure of anything.

Except that there’s a hole in October. And no matter what I do, it keeps getting bigger.

© 2003 by Todd McAulty. Originally published in Black Static. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Todd McAulty grew up in Nova Scotia. He was a manager at the start-up that created Internet Explorer, and currently works at a machine learning company in Chicago. The Robots of Gotham, forthcoming in June 2018 from John Joseph Adams Books, is his first novel.

EXCERPT: Meet Me in the Strange (Meerkat Press)

Leander Watts | 5111 words

Meet Me in the Strange is an intoxicating adventure set in a glittery, retro-futuristic world of glam rock, spectral aliens, and gender-bendy teens. Davi is mesmerized by a girl at a concert, who appears to lose herself in the power of the otherworldy music of Django Conn. Later, through a chance meeting, Davi becomes friends with the girl, Anna Z. She is like no one Davi has ever met: she loves to talk, talk, talk and has grandiose theories of the next evolution of humans and a strange phenomenon she calls the “Alien Drift.”

But danger lurks around every corner, because Anna Z is on the run, and her cruel and controlling older brother is determined to find her, at any cost. Davi faces a daunting decision: go on living a safe existence at the magical Angelus Hotel, which has been in the family for generations, or help Anna Z escape her troubled past. When the two take off to follow the concert tour of their glam-rock idol, Django Conn, Davi and Anna Z will face the biggest threat of their young lives.

Available March 27, 2018 from Meerkat Press.

ONE

It was like she’d lost everything. Her name, her voice, any idea who she was or what she looked like, who the people were around her. The only thing that mattered was right there in front of her on the stage.

We were up close—masses of glam-girls and glister-boys all reaching out at the air like we could feel the music in our hands and pull it into ourselves. Wild kids pushing and pulsing with the music. Not really dancing. But it was music and bodies, so what else could you call it?

And it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen because the girl was gone—not just freaked or blissed-out. She’d let go, totally, of everything.

I got that first glimpse of her about halfway through the show, and it was like I was split right down the middle of my skull. One half was still there with the rest of the crowd, the band like the Horses of Apollo carrying me upward with the fiery sound. And one half of me was zapped by seeing this girl, like a knife juiced with electricity cutting into my brain. She was gone, vanished, disappeared inside herself.

I was cranked up like all the other five thousand fan-kids who’d come to hear Django Conn, and see him and feel him. Some of them had dyed orange, cockatoo haircuts just like Django. Some—boys and girls—had eye makeup, silvery mascara, and big, shiny slashes of lipstick, dangly earrings and platform shoes, feathers and fishnets, and the whole glam look. But this girl was different.

She had glasses, ordinary eyeglasses. They were steamed over and caught the spotlights from the stage, oozy reds and liquid purples. Her hair was black, long and damp in snaky-sexy locks that clung to her face and her neck. And just for a second, I thought she looked like somebody who was shipwrecked, drowning in a sea, dying almost but okay with that, or more than okay, letting the waves sweep her up and away.

I don’t remember what she had on. Doesn’t matter. Was she pretty? Maybe. Beautiful? Doubtful. Amazing? Absolutely.

She wasn’t one of them, not exactly, trying to look like, trying to be Django. And neither was I, even though I’d been waiting months for this show, and I loved Man in the Moon in the Man more than just about anything in the world. I’d been listening to the new album nonstop for weeks, my new diamond needle wearing out the grooves.

For the song “She’s the Hype,” the lights went into a wild black and white strobe. Off and on and off and on, pulsing, slamming, stuttering. And the girl kept appearing and disappearing. Not like a ghost all wispy and see-through. In flashes, for a second or two, she was solid, real, realer than anything. It was like the light itself was a drum, pounding light hitting the crowd in sudden bursts. I got a glimpse, and then she was gone. Then back again, broken up into frames like an old film, flickering in and out of reality.

Nobody was paying attention to other people. Nobody but me. All eyes were on Django, and all ears were blasted by the band. So when the girl lost it, when she totally lost it, I was the only one who saw and got it. Private, secret, just me and her alone, even though we were surrounded by five thousand others at the Maxima. Just me and her in that secret place.

The band got hotter, and the crowd got wilder. Django got fiercer, jumping into “I Asked for Water but She Gave me Gasoline.” And I lost sight of the girl, like the tidal waves pushed us apart, a couple of pieces of broken driftwood in a blackwater storm.

Django did all my faves: “I Fear No Venom,” “Girls Will Be Boys,” “Empire of Light,” “Pavlov’s Daughters.” They finished up with “Flash Bang Baby.” And then Django vanished in a sudden cloud, like a puff ball when it bursts and shoots that cloud of dust-spores into the air. It was like he blew up right there in front of five thousand fans. One second he was singing the last line from the last song on Man in the Moon in the Man, over and over again: “You’re all I’ve ever had!” Then the band crashed to the end of the song, and it looked as if he’d exploded. It was just a stage trick of course, lights and smoke like a magician uses to cover up his best illusion. But Django blew up and the dust spores whooshed out over us, a cloud of powder pink and velvety violet, and that was the end of the show.

TWO

Everybody hung around as the lights came up. Music got piped in through the P.A. system—a Vivaldi concerto played on a Moog. And it was like waking up from the best dream I’d ever had. I looked for the girl. I wasn’t even sure anymore if she’d been real, because how much had I really seen of her? She was just a blur, one girl as the strobe light hit her then a crash of blackness, then maybe another girl, a cloudy flash of faces that blended into one, making that look of pure surrender. When there are five thousand kids and most of them are dressed in glam Django-drag, how could I be sure who was who and what was what?

I stood there, woozy and weak-kneed. Sweet, pearly-blue smoke swirled overhead, like spirits trying to escape back to heaven. Thousands of bodies surrounded me. And voices too: laughter, blurry moans, strained whispers, brain-warped babbling. There was movement in the crowd, but no one wanted to leave. Not yet. We all wanted to soak in the last of Django’s shimmery vibe.

It was useless, but still I looked around for the girl. What would I say if I found her? Maybe something stupido like, “Great show. He’s the best.” Or would I dive right in and ask her what she’d been feeling, what was really going on inside her? She’d been lost. Totally lost and—I know this is the part that doesn’t make sense—found too. Saved by the sound. Only how can you be empty and filled up to overflowing at the same time? Possessed maybe, giving up everything then filled back up because the music was so huge, and Django Conn had been right there in front of us.

I didn’t move, at first, and I didn’t say a word. I’d gone to the Maxima alone, and I’d go back home alone too. So I held onto the moment. For a little while longer, with Django’s voice still echoing inside my skull, I scanned the crowd.

It was obvious now that lots of kids were buzzed on fly-spell. I think some of them had been hitting the white gong too—bleary-eyed, tongue-tied, and wobbly on their feet.

A boy bumped into me, giggling and chattering. He had about a dozen rhinestone chokers around his neck and fingernails painted with flames. “I love him!” he said to me, and nobody, and everybody. “Best show of the tour. I saw him last week, twice. This was better than the best.” He grabbed my arm and kept on talking. “Django is god! I love-love-love him!”

He realized suddenly that he didn’t know me and spun around, looking for the friends he’d come to the show with.

Others were saying the same thing. Nothing could beat what we’d just seen and heard. Django had been on tour for a month with the Reptiles, so the band was at their peak, absolutely together and into it. That night Django went further, deeper, higher than he’d ever gone before. He’d never been so beyond.

THREE

My ears were ringing, and my feet hurt from standing so long. The skin on my knuckles was rubbed raw, and it felt like the bones of my skull were still vibrating. And that feel kept on going all the way home, on my moonless walk along the canals, back to the Angelus.

The city at that hour was closed up tight: shuttered, locked, and dark as the cathedral crypts. Another night, I might’ve enjoyed being out alone, sneaking through the shadows. But my mind kept swinging back to the Maxima.

On the way home, I barely saw the dim streets and alleyways where I walked. I kept thinking, of course, about the show. About the girl, the band, and Django. But how much, I wondered, had been real, and how much had I imagined? Everything about Django was unreal, which doesn’t mean it was fake or stupido or a bore. Just the opposite: Django was unreal the way lightning is—amazing, loud, dangerous, freaky. He was unreal like the best dream I ever had, or that picture of Earth that the Apollonauts sent back when they walked on the Moon, or the feeling you get when somebody looks you right in the eyes, and it’s like she can see all the way through you, or down deep into the deepest part of who you are.

He was—as the kid with the rhinestones had said—like a god. He’d come down to earth and then gone back to the heavenly realms of stars. But the girl, I kept telling myself, was more like me. We had at least one thing in common—fan-madness. And she might not have come from out of town for the show. I might, somehow, find her.

Up ahead the Angelus loomed. It had slender spires like a medieval church, massive turrets like a fortress, and a thousand windows. At that hour, most were dark. But in a hotel that vast—and it was the biggest in the city—someone is always awake. The Angelus took up an entire block, on one side the balconies hanging over the Great Canal, and on the other, hundreds of rooms facing the grandest boulevard in the city. The main entrance would’ve served well at a baron’s or prince’s palace. I went around the side, not wanting the desk staff to see me come in that late.

The buzzing, dreamy concert feel kept going as I snuck through the southwest servants’ entrance and into the main kitchen.

“What are you doing up this late, Davi?” Maria-Claire’s voice was soft and low. She was sitting in the shadow, waiting I supposed, for an important late night order to come in on the hotel intercom. I wouldn’t call her pretty, and her hair had a few streaks of gray. Still, she was the most graceful person I knew. She served food day and night, night and day, yet there was a charm, almost an elegance about her.

“I was hungry. I thought I’d get some . . .” I didn’t bother finishing my lie.

She knew me too well to be fooled. I could trust her though, and that night she didn’t press me for the truth. She’d been a maid, then a waitress, and now worked room service for the most costly suites in the northwest wing. The guest rooms there were the best in the hotel and so, usually, were the tips that Maria-Claire got. She’d worked there since before I was born and, of all the staff at the Angelus, was the one person I could count on the most.

So we sat a little while, picking at a slice of cold pizza caccia nanza. We didn’t say much that night. We never did, really. And that was one of the reasons I liked being with her. No gossip, no small talk. She was sort of like a mother to me, but without the prying questions and annoying suggestions. I suppose that made her the best mother in the world: giving me great food, covering for me when I got in trouble, and never once giving me a look of disapproval.

“It’s late,” I said. “I really should be in bed.”

“That’s for sure. It’s almost two,” she said. “Good night, Davi.” I’m not sure why, but there was always a little sadness in her voice.

I went up three stories on the staff elevator then got off and climbed a spiral stairway to the seventh floor. Mine was a long corridor with threadbare carpets. Once, long before, the pattern had shown tangled vines, palm trees, flowers of paradise, and birds with human faces. Now the carpets were so thin the wooden floor underneath showed through, and the pattern was barely visible, like figures seen in a fog.

The knobs sticking up from the banister posts were carved in the shape of spiky fruit. The light fixtures, too, had forms from nature: finger-like leaves, pine cones, swollen branches. There was an elevator in the old days, but the shaft had been empty for years. When I was little, I would sometimes look into the shaft, through the pebbled glass of the door, through the crisscross folding metal screen, and see the dim daylight falling like drizzle from above.

FOUR

Waking up after the show, I was still in a daze, unsure, unclear, woozy, and weak. I heard the bells of St. Florian’s, first at noon, then one o’clock, before I got out of bed. My rooms were in the oldest wing of the Angelus, on the seventh floor. Being that far up, and having windows that faced out to the east, I could see the sun rise over the city if I wanted to. If I got up early enough, I could see dawn break over St. Florian’s with its twin steeples, then the Duce’s Dome, the Bridge of Tears, and even a little glimpse of the Maxima, down by the Great Canal.

That afternoon I didn’t listen to any of the albums. I knew it wouldn’t be as good as live, or it would blur what I remembered of the sound and the feel. Of course, I knew that soon enough I’d go back and listen another thousand times. But for a day or two, I wanted to hold onto what I had, in my brain and in my hands and the bones of my skull.

So I got out my stack of Creedos and went through them, looking at all the pictures. There was one cover story that showed the whole band: Rudy Lasher on gamba, Simon Faruk on baryton, Mick St. Clair on drums. And Django clutching the mic stand like he was getting electrocuted. He had carrot-orange, fuzz-spike hair and wore a see-through shirt and tight snakeskin pants. Even though he was definitely a guy, there was something pretty—almost beautiful—about him. Lighter than air, hot and cool, above and beyond. He was a gorgeous, first-class freak, but he was my freak, even if there’d been five thousand fans screaming his name the night before. He was mine—when I had my door closed and a towel under it to block out the light, and when I had the headphones clamped tight on my ears and the Reptiles’ riffs were coming hard and fast, bright as mirror-shine.

That year, I’d read all I could find about Django, in fanzines and music papers. Creedo did a cover story about him when the “Moon” tour started. I bought two copies, one to keep and one to cut up for the pictures. And there was Django, taped up on the back of my bedroom door, when I woke the next day with the noon sun making a fever glow on the backs of my amber silk curtains. He’d watched all night as I slept, and he was there when I got up.

Django Conn wasn’t his real name. According to Creedo, it was something normal. But he made the true mutation and turned himself into Django Conn, and it was like there’d never been the other, normal guy. He’d vanished, or maybe the day the Apollonauts walked on the moon, the world he came from had vanished. Django invented himself with his new name and did some records solo. Then he formed the band, the Albino Reptiles from Dimension X, though everybody just called them the Reptiles. They put out Gimme Back My Phantom Limbs then Man in the Moon in the Man. And that’s when it all started to happen: the write-ups in Creedo, radio play, and the tour.

Lying there in bed, half in and half out of sleep, I had an uneasy thought. What if the girl hadn’t really existed until I saw her at the show? What if she wasn’t really there until I noticed her? I don’t mean that I dreamed her out of nothing. But what if I somehow called her up, conjured her to be there? Not exactly like a black magic conjuration, but just because I wanted her to be there, she’d appeared. Or maybe another way of seeing it would be like alchemy. A pinch of white powder into the flask, a glug of sour-smelling yellowy goo, some milky stuff, and a handful of black, crumbled crystals. Then turn on the flame underneath. Maybe it would boil over all frothy or suddenly turn perfectly clear and calm. And there she was, conjured up.

It doesn’t quite make sense anymore, but that was the way my mind was working the morning after the show. Django was the alchemist. The music and the lights were the heat, and his lyrics were the spells. And all the fans packed into the Maxima were the secret ingredients to make something that had never been before.

FIVE

If every room at the Angelus was booked, the hotel could have held over five hundred guests. That, in my memory, had never happened. Business was still good though. And when I wandered through the lobby, there were usually people arriving or leaving with their small mountains of baggage. Uniformed porters stood ready to carry the bags. Either Armand or Arthur, who I swear were twins, welcomed new guests at the main desk. The concierge, with a pink carnation in his lapel, waited in his office to assist in any way he could. Money flowed, phones rang, long-term residents and overnight guests came and went.

My great grandfather had founded the Angelus. My grandfather had expanded it to its current size and made it the most famous hotel in the city. My father had run the Angelus his whole life. But things had changed since the glory days, when dukes and prime ministers and princes of the Church had stayed here. I’d heard rumors that my father was selling his shares slowly, losing control as the city changed, and the hotel business changed with it.

Something new, something powerful, like the swell of a midnight tide, had come moving into the city. Some people, such as my father, denied it was real. They kept on pretending that things would always be the same. Some people, my sister Sabina for instance, thought it had to do with ghosts and ancient waking spirits. And some people—like the girl with the glasses and me—opened our eyes and ears and said yes.

Something new was happening. That much everyone understood, though nobody talked about it. Tourists still flooded into the city, spending money and their time among the old decaying churches and shrines. The Crimson Carnival would always be a huge draw for gawkers and true believers. The Great Rites of St. Florian still brought in thousands of travelers and sightseers each spring. The biggest film festival on the continent attracted celebrities from around the world. And of course there was the old concert music that pulled people to the city. Vivaldi, Verdi, von Weber had their loyal followers. When they weren’t being played at the Maxima, however, then Django Conn or the Starry Crowns, V-Rocket, the Witch-Babies or the Invisible Boys might be found there blasting away at the Old World shadows.

SIX

Glam and glister had swept over the continent just the year before. The most famous bands in the world all of a sudden seemed deader than Tosca and Toscanini. That was a big part of the change. Stars who’d been huge, selling millions of albums and filling the biggest stadiums, looked old and sounded fake. But there was more to it than just new bands with wild hair and capes, kids wearing turquoise amulets and gobs of purple makeup.

Mostly it was signs. In the ancient High Church days, people saw them in the heavens. The sun would turn blood-red, comets would appear as warnings of war or disaster, stars would fall, wailing from the sky. It was like that, but not exactly, because no one knew how to interpret these new signs. I heard rumors of winds from the eastern deserts carrying poisonous dust. What did that mean? No one could say for sure. The dolphins in the Fountain of Poseidon, in the grand piazza, turned overnight from bright bronze to charred black. No explanation made sense. Messages and quavering pictures—like something seen under water—appeared on people’s TV screens. The Great Zeppelin of the North was blown off course by an icy December storm and disappeared. The Apollonauts had landed on the moon, harvested their magic rocks, and headed back. This world where I lived would never be the same once boots had walked in the lunar dust and gloved hands had poked in the piles of moon rubble.

At least that’s how it felt the night we all stayed up until three o’clock to see the silver machine come down from blackness and settle in that stony crater. Most people had gathered together for parties, watching the final approach and moon landing on big screens. My father had put on a huge celebration in the hotel ballroom. Champagne flowed and cigars made a swirling blue cloud. Sabina had gone with her friends to see actors put on a show of the landing on the Maxima stage, exactly as it was happening two hundred thousand miles away. I’d stayed in my room and watched it all by myself. I turned the sound on the TV off and put on the Starry Crowns’ first album. Exactly as the lander’s retro-fires hit the lunar surface, my favorite song broke from the speakers. Cold ringing gamba-riffs and the girl-boy voice filled my room and my brain as the six metal feet touched down on the moon.

And the next day, when the Apollonauts finally opened up the hatch and stepped out, was the first time I heard the Witch-Babies’ new song “Raving and Craving.” I was looking out my window, over the city, when the song’s riff came churning through my headphones. The sun was out, bright and hot, but I was safe inside my room, standing behind the curtains.

The change began before the sun had gone down. There was a new guy telling the news, or maybe it was the old one, but they’d done something to make him look different. His hair was darker and longer. His eyes were a sharp, metallic green. He even talked in a different way, using some words that I’d never heard before: parallax, widdershins, sidereal. There were commercials for brand new products with connections to the Apollonaut mission. Astro-foods, cosmic drinks, a hairstyle called the Artemis (named after the ancient goddess of the moon).

And Django Conn came like a comet streaking across the sky. The biggest, the brightest, the best thing I’d ever seen.

SEVEN

I’d always had two rooms at the Angelus, on the seventh floor: numbers 777 and 779. My sister Sabina was down the hall in 783 and 785. Between us, when we were younger, was our duenna. But she was gone now. It had been three years ago, when Sabina turned fifteen, that she announced to everyone that there was no point anymore in having a creaky, nearsighted black-dress hag-lady to watch over us.

So the room between stayed empty. At the end of the hall was another suite, abandoned for years. It had been set up for our schooling with a blackboard, two big oak tables, crowded bookshelves, and even some old equipment for science experiments. There was a stuffed monkey, pickled frogs floating in big glass jars of formaldehyde, and a collection of sea shells from around the world. For our anatomy lessons, our father had bought us a real human skeleton. We’d named him “The Monsignor” and dressed him up in a long red robe.

Sabina liked reading, especially books about mythical beings, spiritual secrets, séances, theosophy, and lost lore. I didn’t mind learning history and music. But between Sabina’s vicious tongue and my daydreaming, we’d made life miserable for every one of our tutors, and they never lasted long. Eventually our father gave up trying to get us properly educated, and the room had been unused ever since.

So I was left alone with my records and my stacks of fan mags. And Sabina could do as she pleased, which lately meant having séances and tarot card readings in her room. Mostly, I thought Sabina’s talk about psychic powers and spirit-guides was not much more than a joke. But sometimes, especially when I’d done something I shouldn’t have, it felt like she could see into my thoughts. She claimed that she was clairvoyant—that she could actually see things that weren’t there in front of her eyes. And when I was little, she’d tell me that she’d looked around inside my head and knew all the bad thoughts I had. She hadn’t bothered with that in a while. I didn’t believe it anymore, but still, it spooked me when I remembered her giving me that I-know-everything-about-you look.

EIGHT

That afternoon, lying around paging through my stack of Creedos, I heard footsteps and voices in the hallway. This was odd, because normally Sabina had no visitors in the daytime. And other than Gio, who’d been the desk clerk at the Angelus when my grandfather was the owner, we had the whole corridor to ourselves. Gio stayed in his room, listening to operas on the radio. Weeks would go by without us ever seeing him. The maids checked in on him to make sure he was still alive, and one of the old waiters would bring him his supper on a zinc-plated cart. Other than that, our hallway was usually as desolate as the tombs of St. Sebastian.

I assumed at first it was just some adventurous kids who’d wandered off from the main guest wings. Then I thought it might be a couple of new laundresses who’d snuck away from the basement to steal a cigarette break and didn’t know that anyone lived in this corridor. They were girls’ voices, however they didn’t seem secretive or worried. And one of them laughed, high and loud and unafraid of being caught. Then I heard a guy—it was Carlos, my sister’s boyfriend—knock on a door and say, “Come on. Open up, Sabina. It’s us.” After a minute, he knocked again, louder.

The door to Number 783 opened, and Sabina let them in. Then silence for a long time. But eventually I heard something that might have been music. Low and steady, a swelling current of chords, like an organ prelude in the cathedral. I knew my mind had been seriously shaken up by Django and the band. The girl with the glasses, of course, remained in my thoughts—a glimmer, a ghost, a strobe-lit face.

The Angelus too, the huge building itself, sometimes made sounds that were almost music. The radiators moaned slithery, Middle Eastern melodies in the winter months. The wind, now and then, came off the canals and filled the Angelus with a sad, solemn chorus. Doves cooed in the eaves, the elevator cables made a gigantic three-note groaning, and the water pipes sang like far-off spirits. This sound from my sister’s room was not anything I’d heard before. So I did something that I hardly ever allowed myself to do anymore. After getting dressed quickly, I snuck into the room between to eavesdrop on Sabina and her guests.

Copyright © 2018 by Leander Watts. Excerpted from Meet Me in the Strange by Leander Watts. Published by permission of the author and Meerkat Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An avid musician, Leander Watts has played and sung for decades in a wide variety of bands. His interests range from garage rock to skronky jazz, from baroque organ to Appalachian gospel. The first rock concert he attended was David Bowie on the Diamond Dogs tour in 1974. He teaches writing and literature at the State University of New York at Geneseo (his alma mater). Leander Watts is the author of Stonecutter, Wild Ride to Heaven, Ten Thousand Charms, and Beautiful City of the Dead.

EXCERPT: The Robots of Gotham (John Joseph Adams Books)

Todd McAulty | 4654 words

After long years of war, the United States has sued for peace, yielding to a brutal coalition of nations ruled by fascist machines. One quarter of the country is under foreign occupation. Manhattan has been annexed by a weird robot monarchy, and in Tennessee, a permanent peace is being delicately negotiated between the battered remnants of the U.S. government and an envoy of implacable machines.

Canadian businessman Barry Simcoe arrives in occupied Chicago days before his hotel is attacked by a rogue war machine. In the aftermath, he meets a dedicated Russian medic with the occupying army, and 19 Black Winter, a badly damaged robot. Together they stumble on a machine conspiracy to unleash a horrific plague—and learn that the fabled American resistance is not as extinct as everyone believes. Simcoe races against time to prevent the extermination of all life on the continent . . . and uncover a secret that America’s machine conquerors are desperate to keep hidden.

Forthcoming June 19, 2018 from John Joseph Adams Books (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt).

Monday, March 8th, 2083
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On my third day in Chicago, the Venezuelans evacuated my hotel.

It’s like 7:00 a.m. and a soldier in an AGRT uniform comes around banging on every door on my floor. Bam-bam-bam-bam! Nothing gets your heart racing in the morning like a rifle butt hammering on your door.

We’re all roused up and marched down the stairs to the street. There’s this woman on my floor, in bare feet and bedclothes, and when this kid from the AGRT bams on her door, what does she do? She grabs her coffeemaker. We’re hustling down thirty-two flights of stairs, and she’s carrying this coffeemaker with the cord dangling around her feet. I’m still half-asleep and all I can think is, Damn—should I have grabbed my waffle iron?

Round about floor fifteen or sixteen she trips on the cord and smashes her elbow on the railing. So for the last fifteen flights of stairs I’m loaning her my arm and carrying this coffeemaker for her, with, I swear to God, half a pot of hot coffee still in it.

We get to the street and we’re all milling around. I start to wonder if they evacuated only a few floors. Either that or this hotel is virtually empty, because there’s maybe a hundred of us down here, total. Hardly enough to fill fifty floors of a lakeside hotel in downtown Chicago.

The staff is outside too, looking pretty put out. A slender young front desk clerk dressed in a thin pink chemise and not much else is hopping up and down a few feet to my right, trying desperately to stay warm.

There’s maybe forty Venezuelan soldiers lined up in front of the hotel, and this guy in uniform yelling at us in Spanish. And there’s this robot.

I’ve got no idea what’s going on and I’m freezing to death, standing on Wacker Drive in early March in sweatpants and a T-shirt. I’m shaking my head at the coffee lady because I don’t want to give her coffeepot back, since it’s the only source of heat in about a hundred yards. This Venezuelan sergeant or captain or whatever is shouting and gesturing and beginning to turn purple, and I’m starting to think he’s shouting at me, or maybe the coffeepot.

And I absolutely cannot take my eyes off this robot. It’s magnificent. Three stories tall, maybe fourteen yards, Argentinean design. Kind of squat, like a giant gargoyle. Diesel powered, with steam and whatever venting out the back. It has some pretty slick telecom gear, a Nokia 3300 base station bolted on top and four whip antennas, all rigged for satellite. Some heavy ordnance as well: I can see an 80 mm Vulcan autocannon and at least two mounted antipersonnel weapons.

It’s seen action, too. Plenty of scoring up front, and the Vulcan looks like it’s recently been refitted. Someone who knew what they were doing spent some time painting the whole chassis with a bird motif, blue and white, and this close the effect is very impressive.

It’s facing west on Wacker, poised like a bird, with one leg stiff and one half-raised, its great metal toes dangling a few feet above the pavement. Nothing that big should be able to stand so gracefully, like a raptor hunting prey.

Still, it seems like a lot of firepower just to impress a bunch of tourists. Martin, a data miner from London, spots me and shuffles a bit closer. He glances at the coffeepot. “Were we supposed to bring our appliances?” he whispers.

“I think it was optional,” I say. “You know what the hell’s going on?”

The shouting Venezuelan soldier moves closer, gesturing violently at the hotel behind us. Martin keeps his eyes fixed on the pavement until he passes. “Something about evacuating the hotel for our own safety,” he says quietly.

I nod toward the captain. “Guy seems pretty pissed.”

Martin listens to the shouting for a few more moments. Then a soldier dashes up, handing the captain a black tablet. I realize with a start that it’s not a soldier at all—it’s a slender robot, black-limbed and humanoid. I’ve seen a few robots with a small mobile chassis, but this is the first one I’ve seen in Chicago. The captain stops shouting long enough to look at the tablet.

“The hotel staff was supposed to wake us up, apparently,” Martin translates for me. “The colonel had to send his soldiers to get us. He says next time, he’ll let everyone die in their beds.”

That doesn’t sound good. “What’s going to kill us in our beds, exactly?”

Martin shrugs, giving me a nervous glance. “Something bad.”

I was about to reply, but the colonel had started moving again. Whatever he saw on that black tablet, he didn’t like it. He’s not shouting now, but his face is grim. He moves into the street, the slender robot at his side. He’s speaking to the soldiers nearby and looking west down Wacker. He points, and two of the soldiers take off running toward a concrete barrier.

A skinny corporal whose uniform looks like it would blow off in a stiff breeze marches up to us and starts speaking. He’s staring just over our heads, but presumably addressing us. He’s much quieter than the colonel, and his words are so thickly accented it takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking English.

He wants us to march south, down North Stetson Avenue. On the double, now now now. Martin and I get our feet moving, but too many others are still milling around, confused. I guess most of them can’t hear the soldier—or can’t understand him—and now that the colonel is gone, people have started breaking into groups. The buzz of conversation is getting louder.

Martin stops at my side. “We need to get these people moving,” he says, concern in his voice.

Something happens then. Someone down the street shouts, and all the soldiers duck, heads swiveling to the west. The skinny corporal in front of us stops speaking, his arm hanging powerlessly in the air, still pointing south down North Stetson. His head turns west with the rest. His mouth is open, but he’s making no sound.

Something streaks through the air, small and bright like a spark struck from a sword blade. It hits the towering robot and explodes, a hammer-punch of light and sound. One of the elegant whip antennas goes spinning off its chassis, skidding away down the street until it smashes into a parked Mercedes.

There’s screaming then. Screaming and the sound of automatic weapons, returning fire to the west.

“Jesus Christ,” Martin shouts, ducking down at my side.

All around us, people are frozen in place. The half-naked receptionist to my right is covering her mouth, her eyes wide. She reaches out to the guy next to her, tugging at his shirt. She starts to ask a question.

I seize her arm roughly, grab the shirtfront of the guy she’s talking to. “Move, you idiots!” I shove them toward Stetson.

They start to run. A few feet away, four of the hotel staff are cowering on the curb. I pull the first one to her feet. “Go! Get moving! Martin—help me!”

Martin tears his eyes away from the street. He pushes himself to his feet, helps me shepherd people south, down Stetson Avenue.

The Venezuelan corporal breaks his paralysis at last. He’s shouting and waving, pushing when necessary, herding the crowd south.

People start to move. But nearly half of the crowd has surged back up the steps toward the hotel. There’s a panicked knot of guests trying to get through the glass doors.

There’s another explosion behind me—loud and very close. I stumble, see the glass windows of the hotel vibrate violently. There’s a flash of heat on the back of my head. “Get away from the windows!” I shout. “Stay out of the hotel—move! Down the street!”

Martin and I are working together. The corporal comes up behind us, trying to help. But it’s not enough. There are still nearly forty guests clustered at the hotel entrance. Most aren’t even moving—they’re just hunkered down near the bushes to the side of the doors, or huddled together on the concrete steps. Already my throat is hoarse from shouting, but I keep at it. The next guy I grab shakes me off violently. “Don’t touch me,” he says defiantly.

Martin’s not having any more luck. The people he’s pleading with are sticking together, glued to the steps. Somehow, the young corporal manages to be even less effectual. He’s standing in the center of the turnaround in front of the hotel, sweeping his arms in the air and waving toward Stetson Avenue like he’s directing traffic. He looks terrified. No one is even looking at him.

We’re barely fifteen feet from a huge bank of windows. One well-placed shell, and five hundred pounds of glass shrapnel is going to punch through the air, right where we’re standing. I swear helplessly.

I glance into the street, trying to get a quick read on the situation. The Venezuelans are taking cover behind concrete barricades, returning fire to the west. A small team has set up what looks like a machine gun nest, but instead of a machine gun they’re manning some kind of portable radio frequency antenna. They’re aiming it like a weapon, and I wish them luck.

The robot is moving now, but it’s none too steady on its feet. Also, it’s on fire. A thin trail of black smoke snakes out behind it as it takes its first steps west. The Vulcan mounted on its side is silent, for which I’m grateful. The soldiers are letting it take the lead as they prepare to advance.

I spot the colonel, standing in the center of the whirlwind. He seems to be in command of everything, except maybe the robot. He’s doing three things at once: yelling at a small platoon, probably to relinquish their useless position and move their asses west; listening to a report shouted to him from a tech running alongside; and barking into a black phone connected to another backpack.

The colonel turns his head toward us for an instant, seeming to take in the fiasco in front of the hotel at a glance. He turns to his left, says something to a squad of soldiers trailing him, and then returns to the phone. The soldiers start running our way.

I abandon the cluster of hotel guests I’m working on and hunker down next to Martin. “Hey,” I say. “Something’s up.” He follows my gaze to the soldiers.

I’m not a fan of guns. But I have to admit, the sergeant leading the small squad knew how to use hers. She didn’t bother saying a word—she just waded into the center of the unmoving civilians, pointed her rifle in the air, and fired a short burst. Then she reached down and grabbed a middle-aged bellboy and yanked him to his feet, pushing him toward Stetson.

That was all it took. All of a sudden everyone was moving, and in the right direction. The gunfire had badly unnerved many, and a young woman passing on my left was close to hysteria, but at least they were walking. As Martin and I followed the others south, I saw the sergeant send two soldiers into the lobby to retrieve those who’d managed to slip back inside. In a moment they were following us too.

“You lost your coffeepot,” Martin observes. I’m surprised to discover he’s right. I don’t recall putting it down, but I’m no longer carrying it. I hope it found a good home.

Martin and I are pulling up the rear, just ahead of the lobby-dwellers who’ve been forcibly repatriated with the rest of us. We get away from the entrance to the hotel, and we’re making our way south down Stetson Avenue. Sixty of us fill the street. The sergeant has her rifle on her shoulder, pointed skyward, as she strides briskly toward the front. Paradoxically, everyone is both following her and giving her a wide berth.

“Oh my God,” says Martin.

I turn. Martin has stopped walking. He’s looking back toward Wacker.

A Union mech has entered the battle from the west. It’s sleek and spry, thirteen yards tall, sixty tons of deadly American metal. Where the Venezuelan machine moves like a bird, this thing is accelerating down the street like a freight train—fast and implacable on two heavy metal legs. I can see a constant halo of sparks around its torso as it absorbs small arms fire from the Venezuelans on the street, but it ignores them. Instead, it is focused on the robot.

As Martin and I watch in paralyzed fascination, it launches a trio of missiles—two at the robot in its path, and one at a concrete barricade sixty yards to our right.

A bunch of stuff happens then, all of it bright and all of it very loud.

Martin turns and starts running south. We collide and he nearly knocks me flat. He grabs me just before I hit the pavement, helping me regain my footing. “Come on!” he says.

“Yeah, yeah—go! Right behind you.”

Martin nods and bolts, vanishing into the crowd. Everyone is running now, in full flight south.

My ears are ringing, but not so much that I can’t hear the sudden crescendo of return fire, and more explosions. I’m standing, and it occurs to me that’s a dumb, dumb idea. I flatten, palms on the pavement and elbows in the air like I’m doing push-ups, and watch what unfolds.

What unfolds is a knock-down, face-to-face slugfest between a Union mech and a heavily damaged Venezuelan robot; a battle of wills between an elite American pilot in a titanic war machine and a coldly calculating machine intelligence in a forty-ton armored carapace. I watch the whole thing from a front-row seat scarcely a hundred yards away, hypnotized.

Most of the battle happens too quickly for me to follow. Both units are exchanging fire, mostly small arms. The Venezuelan robot is in pretty bad shape. It’s lost part of its outer carapace, and open flames have started to flicker at the heart of the black smoke pouring out its back. But the Vulcan is still intact, and it lets loose twice at close range. It must have hit at least once, because I see the mech shudder. I hear shrapnel peppering the road, the barricades, and even the hotel to my left. A third-floor window shatters, and broken glass cascades to the sidewalk fifty feet away, some of it bouncing within a few feet of my head.

As dynamic as all of that is, I know the most intense part of the battle is invisible. While all that hot metal is flying through the air, these two titans are simultaneously hammering each other with powerful short-range electronic countermeasures, attempting to confuse, slow, or overexcite every semiautonomous component they can identify. Each of these beasts is a conglomerate of hundreds of patched systems, every one with several potentially exploitable weaknesses. Slow even a couple systems down a fraction of a second, and it can mean all the difference.

I couldn’t tell who had the upper hand in the desperate electronic struggle, but here in the physical realm, the mech was killing it. The robot takes two hesitant steps backward, its left leg vibrating violently. There’s a soft wooosh, and suddenly its whole upper third is engulfed in flame.

Just like that, the battle of the titans is over. The robot is trying to retreat, but it’s pinned against one of the concrete barricades. It twists, trying vainly to step over it, but the barricade is too tall. It’s burning out of control now; thick black smoke is billowing from its torso, and five-foot tongues of brilliant flame are licking its spine.

It’s a sitting duck, but the mech has already lost interest. The heavy Union machine twists, concentrating fire on the Venezuelan soldiers. I hear hundreds of bullets hitting concrete and pavement, and the screams of pain as they find softer things.

It’s time for me to be gone—long past time. I pull myself into a squat, start retreating farther south down Stetson, unable to tear my eyes off the huge killing machine striding into the midst of the enemy.

Except it isn’t striding. Not exactly. It’s stopped, in fact, almost dead ahead, at the intersection of Wacker and Stetson. It seems to be hesitating. I’m struck again at how animalistic these things are, and right now, it looks like a canny wolf, smelling a trap.

The pilot must have sensed something. The mech takes a step backward, then another. I hear running feet to my right, tear my eyes away long enough to see a squad of soldiers near the hotel in a crouched run toward my position. I feel a surge of terror then—it’s one thing to be on the sidelines of a firefight, and a very different thing entirely to be right in the middle of a group of soldiers taking fire.

I throw my arms up over my head, stand as straight as I dare, and start running down Stetson Avenue.

I never saw the missile—or whatever it was—that almost killed me. All I remember is getting punched hard mid-step, and the ground moving abruptly five feet to my left. I take a tumble—and I mean a tumble—head over heels and landing hard, slamming my shoulder into the pavement and ending on my back.

The world is spinning. I’ve had the breath knocked out of me, and I’ll have a nasty bump where my head whacked the pavement, but I don’t think anything is broken. There’s more ringing in my ears. I hear a lot of shouting, but I’m so turned around I have no idea where it’s coming from. I should get up; I should be running. But I sit tight for maybe twenty seconds, gripping the pavement, just breathing, waiting for the owww to recede.

It takes a surprising effort just to sit up. I’m dizzy, and a little nauseated. But I still hear a lot of gunfire, and that’s a powerfully effective motivator. I locate my feet, get them under me.

I smell smoke. Something nearby is burning. Everything is blurry for a few seconds, and I blink to clear my eyes. I risk a glance back toward the hotel.

There’s a large chunk missing from the street, maybe thirty yards away. A few seconds ago, a squad of soldiers was running in that direction. I can’t see them now, though the smoke and haze are obscuring my vision. I stare stupidly at the smoking crater.

Someone is calling my name. I’m having a hard time with directions, so I check them all methodically, one by one. Finally I spot Martin. He’s maybe eighty feet south down Stetson, waving at me. He’s saying something.

“Get down!” He takes a few steps toward me, thinks better of it. “Barry, get down!”

I realize I’m standing. I’m not sure how that happened. I begin a hunched run south—but too fast, too fast. A wave of dizziness makes me miss a step, and I barely avoid falling again. I stop moving and bend over, gripping my knees, waiting for it to pass. I feel naked and exposed, but at least I’m still upright.

Something brushes against me. It’s the short black-limbed robot. It’s stumbling south down Stetson. Every time it moves, its right leg makes a high-pitched, ugly sound. It’s mangled, pretty bad. Its head twists and it glances at me as it shuffles past.

“You okay?” it says.

“Yeah,” I manage. “What happened to you?”

“Shrapnel hit,” it says. It waves a shaky arm at its right leg. “Just look at this. I’m fucked.” Shaking its head, it continues on its way, limping south.

I straighten a bit. There are more soldiers behind me. I see them now. Sprawled on the ground in the traffic circle in front of the hotel. They’re moving, getting to their feet. I hear running, more shouting. Someone is screaming.

The screaming is close. I turn back toward the hotel, scanning the rubble, and suddenly another soldier appears right in front of me. He’s just a kid—eighteen at most. His jaw is slack, his hair caked with black soot. Tiny chunks of gravel are stuck to his face, and I resist the urge to brush them off. He looks like he’s been sleeping in the street. He grabs my shoulder, saying something in Spanish. Then he repeats it.

He’s not the one screaming. I step around him. Without another glance at me, he resumes stumbling south.

A breeze is wafting down the street, blowing smoke in my eyes. I smell burnt tar and fuel. I feel pretty out of it, but not so out of it that I don’t want to know exactly where that mech is. After a second, I spot it.

It’s retreating. Moving back west down Wacker, taking slow strides backward with its great metal legs. It’s still firing, but it’s turned its attention northeast now, across the Chicago River. Firing tight, controlled bursts. I see a row of fourth-floor windows on an office tower west of Lake Shore Drive disintegrate, releasing a shower of glass and concrete that cascades to the street.

There’s movement in the street across the river. A Venezuelan convoy; trucks and a tactical Bluegear unit. I can’t tell from here if they’re returning fire. For our sake, I hope their aim is good.

The screaming hasn’t stopped. I’m closer now. I step over some chunks of rubble that weren’t here minutes ago, searching. A wide patch of asphalt nearby is smoldering, giving off wisps of gray steam. There’s a rifle on the ground. I’m not stupid enough to pick it up.

I find the screamer. It’s the young corporal. He’s lying on his back in the street. He’s clutching his throat and his eyes are wild.

I drop to my knees next to him and try to assess his wounds. He doesn’t look burned, and there’s a four-hundred-pound chunk of displaced concrete nearby that looks like it missed him by scant feet. The concrete shattered when it hit the street, like shrapnel. His clothes are ripped in a dozen places, and there’s blood.

There’s a lot of blood.

I glance around quickly, looking for nearby soldiers. There should be a medic, a guy with a first aid kit, something. But I see no one. I call out for a few seconds, but no one answers.

Ten feet away there’s a small white metal box. It’s overturned, and it’s been blown open, and thin white gauze has spilled out, blowing in the wind. Is that a med kit? Is this poor bastard the medic? If so, God help him.

I assess him as best I can. God. He’s even younger than the last one. He looks barely seventeen. There’s multiple lacerations, a bad twist to his right foot that speaks of a broken leg, but there’s too much blood for just surface scrapes. He’s punctured bad, probably an artery, and if I don’t find it fast he’s not going to make it.

I lean over him and pull open his shirt, looking for the source of the blood. It doesn’t take much; the fabric seems almost in tatters. His chest is slick with blood, but I can’t find any major wounds; nothing looks life threatening.

Then I see it. Bubbles, at his throat. I should have checked there first. Each time he exhales, tiny blood bubbles mushroom just above his collarbone.

I move to the metal case, grab two handfuls of gauze bandages, return.

I try to clean the wound quickly, looking for fragments of stone lodged in his throat, but blood is flowing too fast. I apply pressure as best I can, stanching the flow of blood without choking him. I need to check his leg, make sure he’s not losing blood anywhere else.

Oh God. Oh God. His eyes are open. He’s awake, staring right at me. He’s trying to speak, but only red bubbles emerge from his mouth, breaking and spilling down his chin to splatter on the pavement.

And then there’s a gun at my head.

The sergeant is standing over me, her pistol drawn and pointed at my temple. “Step away from that man,” she says in nearly perfect English.

I don’t move. My hands continue to apply pressure, keep wrapping gauze around his neck. “I will shoot you,” the sergeant says.

It takes a moment to gather enough breath to speak. “Your man has a punctured trachea,” I tell her. “He needs pressure on the wound. He needs a damned medic.”

I can’t tell if she understood me. “A medic is coming,” she says.

“Not fast enough,” I say. “Get me that kit. That one.” I point with an urgent thrust of my head.

The gun wavers slightly.

“Drag it over here. There may be alcohol in it, something to clean the wound. Or a field suture kit. Your man is bleeding to death.”

“That man is already dead,” the sergeant says. “Now get up.”

I start to argue, to tell her she’s wrong. But when I look down, all I’m holding is a seventeen-year-old kid who’s stopped breathing.

Copyright © 2018 by Todd McAulty. 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

Todd McAulty grew up in Nova Scotia. He was a manager at the start-up that created Internet Explorer, and currently works at a machine learning company in Chicago. The Robots of Gotham, forthcoming in June 2018 from John Joseph Adams Books, is his first novel.

Book Reviews: June 2018

Arley Sorg | 1490 words

The Poppy War
R.F. Kuang
Hardcover / Ebook
ISBN: 9780062662569
Harper Voyager, May 2018, 544 pages

The Poppy War by R.F. Kuang is a fantasy epic set in the Nikara Empire, a country inspired by twentieth-century China. The narrative utilizes contemporary language, bringing the reader into its setting with an effective, readable style. The story gets to work immediately, offering an engrossing opening and a likeable protagonist.

Runin Fang (called Rin) is an orphan in a backwater town. She helps run her adoptive family’s illegal opium business. Her path is set out for her, but she has no desire to be married off. She wants to enroll at the prestigious military academy in the nation’s capital, Sinegard.

Overcoming the disadvantages of parents and poverty, Rin passes the rigorous entrance exam. She leaves her village behind to find that Sinegard presents a new set of terrors. She is ostracized by her peers, and especially by a boy who bullies her. She is castigated unfairly by her teachers. But she continues to fight, visualizing herself as a general in the army.

The truth of Nikara is that it’s falling apart. The army Rin longs to join is run by vying warlords. The Nikaran Empress is making suspicious political moves. And the Federation of Mugen seems intent on starting another war.

From the outset, the text deftly explores racism, gender, and the fallacies of supposedly meritocratic systems. Not everyone has the same opportunities to prepare for the entrance exam. Women can join the academy, but very few make it. And Rin’s dark skin matters in a land that associates pale skin with beauty and sophistication. Relationships shift, Rin grows, and these explorations grow more complex.

Occasionally a fight doesn’t quite land, but as an action story with a martial arts flair, most sequences are entertaining, sometimes enthralling. Fight scenes stand as metaphors when seen through the eyes of a young girl who is growing into her body and wishes to enter a world of combat. In Rin’s struggle to survive Sinegard, she discovers the power of shamanism. She also discovers that anger fuels her power.

As a tale of a young girl’s coming of age, Rin’s decisions and their consequences are riveting. Conflicts are believable, and in Rin we are given an underdog hero that we can root for. Through her tale, cultural ideas are questioned with fearless sincerity.

A few overused plot devices blemish the narrative. All the same, The Poppy War entertains for those who want entertainment, and provokes for those who like their fiction meaningful.

Unbury Carol
Josh Malerman
Hardcover / Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9780399180163
Del Rey, April 2018, 384 pages

Unbury Carol features an independent, wealthy, forward-thinking woman named Carol Evers in a secondary-world dark fantasy western. Carol occasionally falls into a death-like state. Her heartbeat and breaths slow to imperceptible rhythms, and she feels like she’s falling, but she retains consciousness, experiencing the real world mostly through sound. Carol has kept her condition a secret, so her husband Dwight conspires to bury her alive.

Dwight has to convince the townsfolk of Harrows—the sheriff, the mortician, and others—that nothing is amiss. In many ways, he’s a classic sort of villain: despicable, if somewhat bumbling. Besides the money, his perceived emasculation at the hands of a wife who was never submissive drives him to murder. As he deceives the townsfolk and spirals around madness’ drain, he paints a wonderful depiction of desperation and paranoia.

Meanwhile, Carol’s former lover, the retired outlaw James Moxie, hears of Carol’s impending funeral. Knowing she will probably wake up, he leaves his house in Mackatoon to ride to Harrows. Moxie is the most famous outlaw around, primarily based upon a single gunfight in which many believed he used magic. His youth leeched from his body by the years, and the weight of regret deep in his bones, he is determined to save Carol or die trying.

But a third character is out to stop him: Rot. An entity of unknown nature, Rot wants Carol to be truly dead, and he employs a number of tricks to try to stop Moxie.

On the one hand, Unbury Carol puts forth an interesting conspiracy, with interesting conflicts, in an interesting setting, utilizing a narrative voice that is somewhere between folktale and legend. There’s nicely layered tension, especially at the outset. And while I wouldn’t call this horror (perhaps “weird fiction”), a helpless protagonist at the mercy of her callous husband who plans to bury her alive—well, some people will find the story terrifying.

At the same time, so much of it takes place through introspection and reflection, so many of the challenges to the characters are psychological, that movement in the plot is slow. Furthermore, while the narrative voice is interesting and fairly unique, the point of view weaves in and out of heads, making surprises seem more like “cheating” than clever turns.

This book is probably not for everyone, but patient readers will find it a worthy title. From themes on redemption to literary touches of Poe to moments of great imagery and language, Unbury Carol has a lot to offer.

Night Beast
Ruth Joffre
Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9780802128089
Grove Atlantic/Black Cat, May 2018, 208 pages

Ruth Joffre’s debut collection Night Beast is both familiar and strange, and often as startling as it is beautiful. The settings are places we’ve known. The people, our relatives and friends, our neighbors. Unencumbered, occasionally gorgeous literary narratives reveal truths in stark moments.

“Go West, and Grow Up” presents an engaging discussion of gender amidst an engrossing depiction of Americana rarely seen. When a young girl’s mother leaves her drunk husband on the side of the road (after living in a car for a year), the two endeavor to drive from Ohio to Oregon. They are impoverished to the point of washing in gas station bathrooms. They have to negotiate their relationship with each other while unsure of their next meal, the gas in their tank, or even their safety. Details make the experiences real; unexpected turns lend power to a poignant coming-of-age story.

In “The Ithaca Moment,” a young woman on winter break runs into the guy to whom she lost her virginity. Present clashes with the past in an awkward afternoon of need and exploration and loneliness. What follows is real, believable, and captivating.

Strongly drawn characters form a strange friendship in “General, Minister, Horse, Cannon.” A tenth-grade girl meets an immigrant boy who may be a genius, or may be deluded. Cultures clash, parents cast judgment, and the narrative becomes a courageous exploration of desperation through the eyes of the innocent.

To call these “stand-out” stories is tricky, since most of the stories in this collection are notable. Also tricky: It’s light on genre content. Of the eleven pieces, one is speculative, another is potentially speculative, and a third could be called “flirting with speculative.”

“Nitrate Nocturnes” is set in a world where everyone is born with a timer which counts down to the moment they will meet their soulmate. Fiona’s timer tells her she’ll meet her soulmate when she’s sixty-four. She struggles to deal with waiting while friends and lovers find their soulmates. Then, historically unprecedented, her timer jumps, changing her life in unpredictable ways.

In “Safekeeping,” a woman is stranded in a safehouse, a technological marvel. She is locked up by a man who may be protective, or just forgetful. She battles loneliness, doubt, and possibly madness.

Finally, “I’m Not Asking” dabbles in the fantastic. A couple copes in the aftermath of a miscarriage. Desperate to stay together, one of them loses herself in a fantasy of a floating hotel that follows the sunset. Regardless of a tenuous relationship with science fiction, this piece is lulling, intimate, and absolutely amazing.

It may be light on speculative content, but this is a collection worth reading. It includes a story selected for a Master’s Review Award by Kelly Link and another published in Lightspeed. Genre can only hope that Joffre will continue to explore the possibilities of science fiction.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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.

Media Review: June 2018

Violet Allen | 1219 words

Altered Carbon
Created by Laeta Kalogridis
Produced by Virago Productions, Mythology Entertainment, Phoenix Pictures, and Skydance Television
First Season released 2018

We open with our main character, Takeshi Kovacs (Byron Mann), gunned down by soldiers in his apartment. Then we jump forward 250 years into the future, where Takeshi Kovacs (Joel Kinnaman) wakes up in an unfamiliar body. As we later learn in flashbacks to his training, Takeshi Kovacs (Will Yun Lee) is an Envoy, a super-soldier trained to have a preternatural understanding of human behavior and an impossible eye for detail. Takeshi has been woken up by 300-year-old Laurens Bancroft (James Purefoy) to solve a mystery: Who killed Laurens Bancroft?

This is the world of Altered Carbon, a thrilling cyberpunk dystopia based on the first novel of a trilogy by Richard K. Morgan, a world in which human beings have discovered immortality, though at a profound cost. In Altered Carbon, human consciousness is stored on cortical stacks, mental hard drives implanted into children at an early age. The only way to permanently kill someone is to destroy the stack. Otherwise, you can theoretically live forever, your mind moving between bodies, “sleeves,” while your consciousness remains intact.

We follow Takeshi as he searches for Bancroft’s killer in a surreal, cyberpunk city of the future. Along the way, we meet a variety of noir archetypes. There’s Miriam Bancroft (Kristin Lehman), Laurens’s wife, the femme fatale. Kristin Ortega (Martha Higareda), the no-nonsense detective who has taken an interest in Kovacs. Vernon Elliot (Ato Essandoh), a mysterious man with a grudge against Bancroft. And Poe (Chris Conner), the AI avatar of an Edgar Allen Poe-themed hotel (you know, regular noir stuff). At the same time, Takeshi struggles with his past, particularly memories of Quillcrest Falconer (Renée Elise Goldsberry), leader of the Envoys, and his sister Reileen (Dichen Lachman).

Altered Carbon’s main strengths are its ideas and its visuals. It really is one of the most gorgeously shot shows I have seen in some time, and its ideas are genuinely interesting. Even when the plot wavers, the images always remain compelling. The concepts are very cool, though the show has a tendency to spell out and underline everything to really make sure you get it. If you ever miss the subtext of a scene, don’t worry, someone will eventually explain it out loud for you. The show’s weaknesses come from its tendency to rely on flat noir cliches and lazy use of sex and violence. While there are a number of strong and interesting female characters in the narrative, the show defaults to a sort of lazy sexism quite often. For all the strange wonders of Altered Carbon’s world, the first thing Takeshi wants to do after getting woken up and exposited at is to go to a future strip club, which seems exactly like the strip clubs of today but with an extremely complex lighting setup. Multiple times, Takeshi is warned against staying in AI hotels because they are like “possessive ex-girlfriends.” Violence against sex workers is featured prominently in the plot. While this does tie into the main themes of the show, the ways in which the powerful exploit the powerless, one cannot help but sense a prurient interest.

One of the biggest disappointments for me was how little the show explored the philosophical implications of its premise. It is entirely accepted within the show’s world that the stack is what makes a person who they are, that the sleeve is just an outfit, a shell. The Takeshi we meet in the present timeline is Takeshi, not a random guy who thinks he is Takeshi. The show seems interested in exploring the nature of consciousness and how we perceive reality, but always seems to stop short before really digging in.

Still, the show doesn’t avoid exploring the implications of its premise. Instead, it focuses on the material implications of its conceit. In a world in which death has been largely eliminated, human bodies have become commodities. The rich have access to whatever bodies they want, including clones of themselves. The poor are not so lucky. Bodies are at a premium. Rich Meths (short for Methuselahs) can potentially live forever, but the average person can not afford more than a few resleeves. The Neo-Catholics, a religious group who see resleeving as a sin against God, seem a bit silly at first, until you realize that the final fate of most people in this world will be to sit on a shelf somewhere until the end of time, not quite dead and not quite alive. Ultimately, the show is concerned with resleeving largely as a metaphor for wealth inequality and a vehicle for how the rich exploit the bodies of the poor, certainly an extremely resonant topic.

The elephant in the room with Altered Carbon is the whitewashing. The show uses the same conceit as the much-maligned Ghost in the Shell live-action adaptation. The protagonists of both are “really” Japanese (mixed-race in Takeshi’s case), but are inhabiting white bodies for sci-fi future reasons. While it still feels a bit like the show is having its cake and eating it too, Altered Carbon at least does not withhold this information from us as Ghost in the Shell did. We see Takeshi’s past self before we meet Kinnaman’s version, and frequent flashbacks to this and other versions of Takeshi, all played by Asian actors, never let us forget that Takeshi is really Asian and considers this a meaningful part of his self-identity, and that the white body he has is just temporary. This conceit was present in the original novels on which the series was based, whereas the whitewashing was introduced in Ghost in the Shell whole cloth, presumably to make the film more palatable to white audiences. Still, while it’s interesting as a science-fiction concept in this imagined world, the reality is that the show’s protagonist is an Asian man played by a white actor in a world in which roles for Asian actors in Hollywood are scarce. It is perhaps not as infuriatingly offensive as other examples of this kind of whitewashing, it’s still fairly problematic, to say the least. The show implies (and its producers have flat out stated) that if given the choice, Takeshi would pick an Asian body if possible, so hopefully future seasons will give the role to Asian actors, though a development near the end of the season makes me wonder if this will actually come to pass.

Altered Carbon is, at its core, an engaging noir thriller. It’s perhaps not quite as smart as it thinks it is, but even its stumbles can be charming, and for all its grittiness, there is a pleasantly goofy streak as it seeks to fill in its world with generation upon generation of future tech. It only truly fails in its depiction of women and sex, as well as its racial politics. The show wants to be thoughtful, but doesn’t quite achieve it, but it is almost always engaging.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Violet Allen is a writer based in Chicago, Illinois. Her work has appeared in Lightspeed, Liminal Stories, Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy, and elsewhere. She is currently working very hard every day on her debut novel and definitely has more than 10 pages written, is not lying to her agent about having more than 10 pages written and does not spend most of her time listening to podcasts, and everything is totally cool, I promise. She can be reached on Twitter at @blipstress.

Interview: Lara Elena Donnelly

Christian A. Coleman | 3921 words

Lara Elena Donnelly is a graduate of the Clarion Writers’ Workshop, as well as the Alpha SF/F/H Workshop for Young Writers, where she now volunteers as on-site staff and publicity coordinator. In her meager spare time she cooks, draws, sings, and swing dances. After an idyllic, small-town Ohio childhood, she spent time in Louisville, Kentucky. She currently resides in Harlem, in a tower named after Ella Fitzgerald. You can visit her online at laradonnelly.com and on Twitter as @larazontally.

The Amberlough Dossier is a glam spy thriller trilogy that takes place in an alternate Jazz Age where the rise of a fascist regime affects the lives of several characters—Cyril DePaul, a gay double agent who turns into a fascist collaborator; his cabaret emcee lover Aristide Makricosta; and their associate Cordelia Lehane, a stripper and small-time drug dealer. How did the premise come together for you?

In pieces, over long periods of time. It started with a setting—a desolate mountain pass with more sheep than people. Which, looking at the description you just gave, seems supremely odd. But I was in Ireland, on a drive through the Sheffrey Pass, and imagined two people meeting there after their world had fallen apart. This story started on the assumption that the characters would lose everything. Once I had that, it was a question of exactly what they’d had that destroyed them when they lost it.

What attracts you to the Jazz Age? Why did you want to set the novels in this time period?

I love the glamour and permissiveness of the 1920s; we get this idea that the past was more conservative just because it happened before our time, but ninety years ago, people were throwing themed sex parties and eating roses dipped in ether. And I guess I also really like how it’s bookended by horror. The Jazz Age came out of the War to End All Wars, and ended in a war that was even worse. It’s this brief flash of fevered energy, almost like everyone knew what was coming and wanted to live it up while they could. Also, the clothes were just great.

What kind of research went into the world building of Gedda, the country where Cyril, Aristide, and Cordelia live, and creating an alternate Jazz Age?

A lot of weird Googling, and one involved conversation with a medical student about the pre-antibiotic treatment of peritonitis. Seriously. But also, setting myself parameters. Because Gedda isn’t our world, I could get away with cadging things from the twenties and thirties as I chose, which might not have co-existed otherwise. I had to have some rules and cutoffs. Like, I’d say the technology is more early- to mid-twenties, but fashion in Gedda is early thirties. This is mostly a product of my weakness for bias-cut gowns.

While Amberlough—book one—was fairly Gedda-centric, Armistice—book two—takes on international politics. I had to confront the fact that I hadn’t really considered globalization in book one, especially given that Aristide is now working in the booming film industry in Porachis in book two. If you think about movies, they’re a major avenue for exporting culture. So here I was creating a film industry in a southeast-Asian inspired culture, when my last book had been set in a country that had not a whiff of southeast Asia about it. Not to mention, Porachis has radio plays! Nobody in Amberlough was listening to radio plays!

Lucky for me, there’s a precedent for something like this in the real world. When talkies—movies with sound—first cropped up, a lot of people looked at them askance. They were viewed as tacky, a gimmick, an absolute blight on the face of film. It took them a while to catch on.

It wasn’t a huge stretch from there to “The intelligentsia in Gedda eschewed radio and film as culturally bankrupt, with no artistic merit!” Which in book three is morphing into “Radio and movies only flourished in Gedda under the Ospies—the fascist party that takes over—who leveraged both as tools to build their movement. Now, they’ve been mainstreamed, with a whiff of collaborationist guilt attached.”

This is something I love about writing; you leave yourself loose threads without even knowing it, and when you need to weave something new, there they are, waiting.

I’ve read that you love to cook. Your descriptions of the meals and drinks in both novels made me so hungry! More importantly, they situated me in the setting. Did you have to research 1920-30s cuisines to get the details? And have you made or had any of the dishes you describe in the novels?

I winged a lot of the street food, just cobbling together bites of portable victuals that felt like something you’d find in a cultural melting pot like Amberlough. For more formal meals—with more wealthy diners—the most helpful resource I had was interbellum ship’s menus.

As for eating the foods I invented, it’s my great good fortune to be friends (and erstwhile roommates) with Sunshine Flagg, giant nerd and incredible chef. I collaborated with her supper club, Culture Club Presents (facebook.com/thecultureclubeats), to create a tasting menu from descriptions of food in the book, including shirred eggs, pork skewers, and barley fritters stuffed with eel. Later, she created a recipe for the pumpernickel honey buns served at Antinou’s restaurant in Amberlough City, which you can still find on Fran Wilde’s Book Bites (bit.ly/2HTtSvP).

Your stories “Chopin’s Eyes” and “Making Us Monsters” (written with Sam J. Miller) are also historical. What’s your favorite part about writing historical fiction?

It’s like solving a puzzle, albeit one where the pieces fit together in myriad different ways. You’re given a set of facts: this person did these things in these places at these times. But no one really knows what was going on inside that person’s head, what really motivated them. Even when you have a diary, or a memoir, or personal letters, there’s a certain performative aspect to that writing. It’s not a true internal monologue.

Siegfried Sassoon, for instance, wrote fictionalized memoirs, nonfiction memoirs, daily diaries, and copious letters. There’s an indisputable series of events that appear in all of them—he did fox hunt, he did play golf, he fought in World War One, he had a disastrous affair with Stephen Tennant, and an equally disastrous marriage to Hester Gatty. But the way he addresses all of these events in his various writings tends to shift depending on what he wants his readers to believe about his or his characters’ motivations.

When you write historical fiction—especially historical speculative fiction—you have the freedom to place yourself in that other person’s context, inside their head, and create a narrative that explains those recorded facts in some new way. Why did this person do these things? What has history hidden? No matter how many documents we have, we’re never going to be there, which means we’re never going to truly understand history. And if you already have that freedom of invention, why not add fairies, or demons, or time travel, if you can weave it into the established narrative?

I’ve seen Amberlough described as Christopher Isherwood meets John le Carré. But you’ve mentioned Elizabeth Bear’s New Amsterdam as your favorite book, because it’s shown you what queer historical fantasy can do. How influential was New Amsterdam for your series?

I didn’t know there was a subgenre called Gaslamp fantasy until my editor name-checked it in a description of my book. But New Amsterdam was probably one of the first Gaslamp fantasies I read, and it blew my mind: fantasy that wasn’t set in knock-off Lord of the Rings-land. That was set in our world but slightly to the left, where magic flourished and history hadn’t followed quite the same course.

It was also one of the first fantasy novels I’d read that was incredibly character-centric. The structure of the book is a series of novelettes and novellas, all connected by character. The over-arching plot has a lot less to do with the action and much more to do with the development and evolution of relationships between the characters. There’s magic, and murder, and mayhem, and monsters, yes. But at the end of the book, it’s really about how people relate to one another, and how they cause each other pain and joy.

I think that’s what it showed me: that fantasy can dwell in that same literary bailiwick of character-centric fiction (like Isherwood’s The Berlin Stories), while still inhabiting a world created in the author’s imagination.

And the prose is just glorious. I love the merciless specificity of the language. This book taught me the words “chatoyant” and “leptodactylous” (possibly a neologism; I’ve never been able to find it in a dictionary). Books should broaden your vocabulary! I learned the world “celerious” reading a book in the car on the way to the SAT (The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Volume I: The Pox Party, if you’re curious), and it was on the test. Bam!

I think an early and influential inoculation of Bear’s style gave me permission to use exactly the word I need, or even just the word I want for the rhythm of the sentence and the style of the story. If I want to use “smaragdine” to describe somebody’s eyes (and you’d better believe I have), readers can damn well look it up. They probably have their phone in their hand while they’re reading! They might even be reading on their phone. Google that new word! It’s good for you!

Who are some other writers who’ve influenced your work?

Holly Black molded my aesthetic early—her modern faerie tales had this glimmering, amoral elegance that got me good. The conflict wasn’t some universal struggle, but about what the characters wanted, and what they were willing to do to get it. Ellen Kushner is another big one. Privilege of the Sword was the first fantasy book I read that had not a trace of magic in it, and it blew my mind. And the Riverside books are full of those same kinds of characters as Holly’s modern faerie tales: people who want something so badly they’ll ruin everything else for it—their lives, their fortunes, their relationships.

Lately, Donna Tartt and Claire Messud have been near the top of my list, because they write stories that are so disconnected from reality—at least, my reality, and probably most people’s—that they feel like fantasy. The humans they write about remind me of the faeries in Holly Black’s books: cruel, capricious, with convictions and motivations that often seem totally outside the ordinary.

What has the overall reaction to Amberlough been from readers so far?

It’s interesting; some people really love it, and I think those are readers like me. Readers who latch onto character first and will let character carry them through any amount of impenetrable worldbuilding and plot. I read stuff I don’t understand on the regular, and as long as there’s at least one character I can connect with, I’ll coast on that until I get my bearings.

I readily admit that it’s confusing and disorienting to be dropped into the middle of a world that’s very different from more widely-accepted fantasy settings, that’s also in the middle of a political upheaval; even the characters don’t really have firm ground to stand on. And there are definitely readers who can’t get past that, or struggle with it. Which is fine; no book is for everybody.

You call Armistice “Golden Age of Hollywood-does-Bollywood,” with a side order of In the Loop. Tell us more about what you mean by that.

So I mentioned Aristide’s new career in the Porachin film industry earlier. Anadh, known as the Silver City, is like 1930s Hollywood, if 1930s Hollywood were on the Indian subcontinent. There’s your Bollywood.

Unfortunately for Aristide, Porachis is also embroiled in a difficult geopolitical situation: one of its close allies is gearing up to fight a proxy war with Gedda. That’s where In the Loop comes in: the sinister tightening of the political web, drawing everyone toward an unpleasant and inexorable conclusion.

I also name-checked In the Loop because if I had to dream-cast the villain of Armistice, Maddox Flagg (thanks for your surname, Sunshine), he’d be played by Peter Capaldi. He never swears, but he’s got Malcolm Tucker’s simmering anger, and the same strong conviction that he’s surrounded by idiots.

I noticed that stagecraft and political upheaval go hand-in-hand in your trilogy. Cordelia and Aristide do their share of playacting onstage as burlesque performers; when they playact off stage, it’s for survival—taking on new identities or aliases, for example. Sometimes their survival and playacting depends on manipulating or hurting others.

I guess this is where you can see the Black/Kushner/Tartt/Messud influences coming in: the idea that these people will do anything to get what they want. But I think it’s different for Cordelia than it is for Aristide.

Aristide is out for himself, and for the rare few who make it into his circle of protected friends, which is very small indeed. He will borrow and steal (and even, sometimes, beg), and his scruples are few and far between. He’ll do anything to get what he wants, and he wants just about everything.

Cordelia is someone who was pretty satisfied with her modest life before the Ospies came along and curb-stomped everything she cared about. Now that she has nothing left, all bets are off. She has the skill set, and no compunctions, because she grew up in a cutthroat environment. But to her, it’s not about rewarding herself. It’s about justice and revenge.

Cyril and his sister Lillian are quite the foils of each other. As a secret agent, Cyril isn’t really that good. He’s all panache and sass, but doesn’t deliver in execution. Lillian, who appears in book two, is such a good and loyal diplomat for the Ospies that she finds herself manipulated by the system. She even says she’s a very specialized piece of machinery. How did you approach dramatizing their involvement with the fascist regime? Did you always have their duality in mind?

I didn’t, really. Lillian and her son Stephen were a tossed-off line in book one, back when I imagined it as a standalone. It wasn’t until I finished Amberlough and started getting book hangover, wondering what had happened to all my children after the fact, that I asked myself any questions about her.

After that, though, it came together really quickly: she’s the elder child of a high-powered family. There are a lot of expectations resting on her shoulders, and she bears up under them with grace. She’s one of those dynastic thinkers, with a stake in how her family is perceived. Cyril is a romantic, whose priorities are totally different from hers. If he’d been born first, and been the heir, he wouldn’t have handled it as well. As it is, he’s the malingering younger son whose parents don’t know what to do with him. When he causes too much trouble, he gets packed off to have a “career” that will keep him out of his family’s hair.

When it comes to their involvement with the Ospies, they’re actually quite similar. They’re both backed into a corner by threats and blackmail. Lillian acquiesces and works within the system, taking pride in doing her job, because it’s the only thing that’s left to her. She keeps her misgivings deep inside, quietly hating everything about her situation but soldiering on because of what’s at stake: her son. Cyril does the same, albeit for himself and for Aristide. I think for both of them it betrays a certain lack of imagination. They’ve both been in some kind of system for so long—their upper-class family, their fancy schools, their government jobs—they aren’t sure how to extricate themselves or act outside the rules. Cyril tries, but he’s awful at it. Lillian only manages with help from lateral thinkers.

I think where they’re most different is that Cyril desperately wants someone to tell him what to do and is usually pretty good at following instructions, whereas Lillian has very clear goals in mind and resents outside interference with her plans. This gets both of them into trouble at various points, but can also be an asset, depending on the situation.

With its themes of the rise of fascism and resistance, what does it feel like working on the series during our current administration?

Boy, was it weird to sell Amberlough in January 2015 and then watch the world do what it did. On the one hand, I feel very lucky that my release date matched up perfectly with a grim but relevant shift in the zeitgeist. On the other hand. . .I’d really rather have written a book about the rise of fascism that didn’t, you know, coincide with the rise of fascism.

I signed the contract for Armistice in early 2017, and it felt really strange to write in the early days of the Trump administration. When the book opens, the Ospies have been in control of Gedda for three years already, and resistance is organized and mounting. In real life April 2017, pretty much the opposite was true. For instance, we didn’t have any domestic paramilitary groups bombing train tracks or making arms deals with foreign interests to mount an insurrection on US soil. In Gedda, all of that was going on.

I’m on book three right now, and, avoiding spoilers, the plot involves a campaign that pits a populist candidate against a more conservative industrialist, and it’s a struggle to craft something that doesn’t feel a little too much on-the-nose with regards to the 2016 US presidential election. On the bright side, when it comes to that old saw “write what you know,” at least the real world gave me a lot of material to draw on!

Also on the bright side, Amberlough was nominated as a finalist for this year’s Nebula and Lambda Literary Awards! Congratulations! You must’ve been through the roof!

I’m honored and astonished. This is my debut novel. It’s also a novel that’s maybe not exactly what you’d expect when cruising the Fantasy shelf in your bookstore. Before publication, we weren’t sure how it would do. It was kind of niche: a non-traditional fantasy setting, very queer, and there wasn’t any magic. So to have this weird book that doesn’t fit comfortably in the genre end up nominated for a Nebula and a Lambda is just incredible to me, and very encouraging. If my queer magicless political fantasy spy thriller can do this, I want to see who else’s “niche” books can make it onto those ballots.

I’m also incredibly grateful to everyone who’s helped me along the way: my workshop classmates from Alpha and Clarion, my parents, my friends, my amazing agent Connor Goldsmith, canny publicist Desirae Friesen, and insightful editor Diana Pho. Everyone who put up with my pissing and moaning through revision after revision, my panic about book release and book tour and book stuff in general. Having your first book come out is thrilling, but also terrifying. There’s no way to prepare yourself, because you’ve never done it before. Y’all got me through it in one piece.

When can we expect book three, Amnesty? And are there any other details you can tell us about?

Aside from the other things I’ve hinted at in this interview, there are complications!

If there’s one thing I really, really love, it’s making people second-guess everything they’ve assumed about characters, settings, themes, tropes, themselves. I even like confounding the logical and accepted march of narrative. You thought Y would follow X? Well, you thought wrong.

Also, there’s an off-brand English country house Christmas, a lot of fearsome ladies, an incredibly teenaged teenager, and what I hope is a satisfying number of explosions.

Do you have any other upcoming projects you can tell us about?

Once I turn in Amnesty, I plan to spend a lot of time lying on the sofa staring at a nice blank wall and not thinking too hard about anything. Also reading all of the books I’ve missed in the last year and a half. I’d like to finish up a couple of short stories that are languishing in my queue and then move on to a novel project that’s been simmering on the backburner for the last couple of years. I’m moving from Jazz Age fantasy world to Cold War America for a novel that’s somewhere between a Gender Studies thesis and Katheryn Bigelow’s The Loveless.

Is there anything you’d like your readers to know?

Boy, what a question. I like to talk about anything and everything. I guess just this: I’ve been toiling in the word mines for a while, on deadline and mildly crazed, and sometimes it gets grim and sloggy and exhausting. Whenever I see a note from someone on Twitter or Facebook or Tumblr saying they liked something I wrote, it lifts my heart and gives me the will to keep going.

I know it’s the same for other authors. Writing is a lonely business a lot of the time, and sometimes it feels like your story has just gone out into the void. I’m not fishing for compliments here; I just want to bridge a gap between readers and writers.

Some readers who reach out to me say things like “sorry to bother you,” or, “I hope it’s okay I messaged you.” You aren’t bothering! It’s definitely okay! Appreciate your authors. If there’s a book that touched you—any book! Comics, non-fiction, children’s book, whatever!—write that letter. Draw that art. Tweet that tweet. Don’t be shy. You will make an author very, very happy.

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: A. Merc Rustad and Ada Hoffman

Alex Puncekar | 934 words

“I Sing Against the Silent Sun” is a story of resistance, of fighting silence. Was this theme at the forefront of the story as you were creating it or did it come organically out of the narrative?

 Rustad: It was definitely the core theme that stayed consistent from the conceptual idea through the . . . uh . . . ten or so drafts that I wrote before this final one worked. I think it was due to such a specific and powerful theme that I kept going even as I hit wrong draft after wrong draft; it was like the guiding light through all the words, so I knew what I was building towards and what I wanted out of the final product.

What was the collaborative process like?

 Hoffman: This was an unusual collaboration for me, because Merc already had a very specific idea of where the story should go, and most of a draft, when they recruited me. They had wanted to write the story on their own, but they needed the climax to revolve around poetry, and they didn’t feel their poetic chops were up to the task. So they asked me for help, as someone who they knew well and who understood the Principality Suns ’verse, and who had a few more poetry publication credits under their belt.

That meant that my job was essentially to be the voice of Li Sin. I had to inhabit this character who already existed and try to write poems as they would. We started by talking about influences, like a rock band—Merc suggested Pablo Neruda, Rumi, and Du Fu, among others. Then I tried to cobble together various things that Li Sin would have written while flying around rebelliously in this amazing, weird, shiny universe. We discarded a few drafts that were perfectly good poetry, but that felt too militant; Li Sin rebels through art, not war. The final “God of Silence” poem is also considerably shorter than it was in its first draft. A beta reader pointed out that Li Sin wasn’t going to have time to make a long speech at that point!

You could say I did the poetry and Merc did everything else, though that’s an oversimplification. The very first poem that appears is Merc’s; it predates my involvement and we decided to keep it there. Vector’s song, at the end, is also by Merc. I had some influence over the story and the shape that it took in revisions, but not much more than a typical beta reader. This was Merc’s baby first and foremost, and my role was more like poetry roleplay. It was an amazingly fun experience, and I hope we can collaborate like this again.

Rustad: I had the bulk of what would end up being the second to last draft of this story when I asked Ada to join me in collaboration and write the poetry. I knew the poems were integral and one of the core elements, but I didn’t know how to write them. Ada, however, is an amazing poet and I love her work (and we are good friends!) and she’s beta read multiple stories in this universe. So it felt like the perfect team-up, and it was awesome working with Ada to revise and integrate the poetry into the story. 12/10, would collab again.

This isn’t the first time we’ve seen Li Sin and followed them on adventures. Will it be the last?

 Rustad: I don’t know yet! I like to keep possibilities open.

Merc, you have a project called ROBOT DINOSAURS! in the works. Can you talk a little bit about that?

 Rustad: YES, YES I CAN. This hatched from a twitter meme late last year, something about “if you edited an anthology, what would the theme look like” and I immediately said “ROBOT DINOSAURS” and then I couldn’t not think about that for months and in December I was like, “You know what, self, if you don’t do this—regardless of how much work it’ll be—you’ll always regret it. THE WORLD NEEDS MORE ROBOT DINOSAUR FICTION!”

“So it does,” I agreed with myself.

So I solicited about twenty authors (some of whom, I am excited to say, will have their first published fiction in this project!) and began planning financial details, Kickstarter rewards and promotion, a website . . . it has been a ton of work, and will continue to be so through the summer, but I am so freaking excited and proud of this thing. All my authors are amazing, all my artists are amazing, and I’m so pumped to help bring more robot dinosaurs into the world!

What’s next for you both?

 Hoffman: I’ve got a Lovecraftian space opera novel that my agent is trying to shop around, and if that gets no bites, my next novel project will just be plain opera. I’m also working on a dinosaur poetry collection called Million-Year Elegies. Hopefully you can expect to see several more individual short stories and poems come out while all of those big things gestate.

Rustad: I’m working on another novel (loosely pitched as “Paradise Lost meets Les Misérables and queer as fuck”), some anthology short stories I’ve been asked for (so exciting!), and as noted above, continued work on ROBOT DINOSAURS!

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Alex Puncekar lives in Ohio and is finishing up his MFA at Youngstown State University. You can find his published work in Aphelion: The Webzine of Science Fiction and Fantasy and Jenny Magazine, or you can find him on Twitter @AlexPuncekar.

Author Spotlight: Ashok K. Banker

Jason Ridler | 815 words

I enjoyed the set up and reversals of the plot, like a contemporary version of Kafka’s The Trial but with a modern non-cis SF focus. Did you intend to play with existential dread through this lens?

 As an immigrant “alien” living as a full-time resident in Trump’s America, my inspiration was a much more contemporary experience. The immigration interview. I’m sure my subconscious was aware of the Kafkaesque reverberations, but my conscious mind was trying to find a way to talk about the experience of living as a liberal non-mainstream individual in this surreal but sadly all too real era.

Thanks for giving the existential dread and sense of powerlessness to those in power! The setting is one that is both familiar and horrible to many people of color (security at an airport), so I was curious if a personal experience (or many) made this setting the most apt given the themes?

 My worst experience occurred at New Jersey’s Newark Airport where I was grilled relentlessly by a fellow South Asian person of color who found it impossible to believe that I would be travelling with several books just for my own reading (and research) purposes. Like most Kafkaesque scenarios, it was both surreal and absurd. All told, it wasn’t really that bad: He just wanted to be sure I wasn’t here to try to make a living selling used books out of my suitcase! So clearly I wasn’t channeling my own experiences, or it would have been a very different story. But I witnessed, overheard, or knew of many awful experiences, especially those of fellow persons of color, trans persons, refugees, Muslims, who were put through humiliating interrogation. No matter how many times you go through without a hitch, a part of you is always dreading that this will the be day when they pounce on you and stretch you on the rack. It was that sense of a shared experience that I tried to capture.

In satire and weird fiction (as well as pulp SF), there is much joy found in personification. The bag was hilarious, a pocket “Eater of Worlds,” and yet I loved that for the uninitiated it was empty and yet utterly full. Why the focus on garments as the most human creatures Octavia encounters?

 Clothes have been politicised so much. Take the hijab. Or the yarmulke. Or ethnic regalia. They’re appropriated, abused, misused, misunderstood. They deserve to have their stories told, too!

The consumption of world through fabrics was a great visual. Why the focus on garments as the SF transformative elements?

 Isn’t all matter ultimately a rearrangement of the same basic atoms and molecules? It just grew organically out of the link between clothing and identity. Why not a “god” fabric? Or a “black hole” fabric. Or whatever unnamed phenomenon the Quiltbag represents.

For many writers, dialogue is where the “fight scene” happens. I loved the reversal on Octavia’s interrogation being in fact a trial for the oppressors (only they don’t know it). What inspired this kind of plot?

 I try to find stories about empowerment rather than disempowerment. We’ve all read enough stories about marginalised individuals or communities being abused, subjected to endless atrocities and suffering. Those are all valid. But we also need stories that empower and inspire. That’s the beauty of SF. To interrogate the tradition of White Cis SF and use its devices and tropes to disembowel itself. An autopsy that results in a reanimation of the genre! “The Quiltbag” is one of a sequence of stories I’m writing that attempts to take classic SF narratives, perform gleeful vivisections, and reanimate them as shiny pretty new things. I have a story titled “By His Bootstraps” appearing in A People’s Future of the United States, edited by Victor La Valle and John Joseph Adams, which is part of this sequence.

It is very popular and necessary to view the future through a dark lens. This one was comedic, realistic, absurdist, and hopeful (reminding me somewhat of some Terry Bisson’s short stories where the present is viewed as a dystopia). How much was that the needs of the story and how much was a reflection of your own reading of SF today vs. current events?

I love that so much contemporary SF is bringing #ownvoices narratives to the surface. My attempt is to do that while directly confronting current events, politics, social justice, in provocative narratives that interrogate the foundations of SF, dismantle and demolish them, then recycle the debris to build a new house where a new kind of SF can live, thrive, and grow. It’s a work in progress.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Jason S. Ridler is a writer, improv actor, and historian. He is the author of A Triumph for Sakura, Blood and Sawdust, the Spar Battersea thrillers and has published more than sixty stories in such magazines and anthologies as The Big Click, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Out of the Gutter, and more. He also writes the column FXXK WRITING! for Flash Fiction Online. A former punk rock musician and cemetery groundskeeper, Mr. Ridler holds a Ph.D. in War Studies from the Royal Military College of Canada. He lives in Richmond, CA.

Author Spotlight: Lina Rather

Arley Sorg | 915 words

Lina, I was glad to see a story from you again. Thank you for this very short, lovely piece. You have a few flash pieces out, but you also have some longer stories published. How is your writing process different for shorter/flash-length fiction?

 I see flash fiction as an opportunity to do a concentrated dose of a single emotion. With flash I usually begin with a particular atmosphere or feeling and try to go deep into it. With short stories it’s usually the opposite—I start with an image and build a broader world or arc. There’s a lot you can get away with in flash that isn’t sustainable in longer forms (at least for me)—weird cadences, unusual tense/POV combinations, or worldbuilding that is more about image than science.

There’s something immediately interesting about the setting and the opening. For me, it creates a feeling of isolation and discomfort. Why a lighthouse on the outermost edge of known space?

 Lighthouses in general are really interesting to me. Historically, lighthouse keepers often lived very isolated lives. Some lived totally alone for weeks or months, guiding strangers from afar. I grew up in Michigan, where there are a lot of abandoned lighthouses, and I always found them really creepy. It seemed a natural setting for the story of someone looking for guidance.

I also just love science fiction stories about humans trying to impose meaning on alien structures.

I really like the way so many elements of setting mirror and expand upon the POV’s emotional state—the light and darkness, the food, the notes on animals, the experience of gravity, and more. Do you prefer working with the environment of a narrative, and moving characters through spaces? Or do you shift tactics depending on the story?

 I actually find setting pretty difficult, even though it’s one of my favorite aspects of a story when done well. Usually I think of myself as a more character-oriented writer. But I love writing about physicality, especially the small details like how one character eats versus another, or the sensation of leaving gravity. In this piece, I was making a conscious effort to pay attention to specificity, because this character has very little past or future. She’s entirely invested in the present moment.

The POV in the story struggles with loss, to the point where she doesn’t want to live. She sells her house and undertakes a voyage in the hopes that the Seer will predict a catastrophe to come and end her pain. Are there aspects of this that are drawn from your own life experiences?

 Some. There’ve definitely been points in my life where I’ve felt that all the doors have closed.

The last line of the story, for me, creates a note of hope, implying (perhaps) that her experience with the Seer has created the possibility of a shift, from living in unbearable pain to learning to get through it in some way—do you feel the same way about the ending?

 I do! I think that sometimes just knowing that there is a path forward—even if you’re not sure what it is—gives you the courage to keep going.

The second person present really works for this story, as well as the sparseness of the POV’s details (no name, no description really, except for the word “Daughter.”) Can you talk a bit about these choices?

 The narrator, and the other pilgrims she’s with, have traveled far enough that no one knows them. They’ve shed their history and their identity. The protagonist has left most of herself behind in preparation for this transformative experience, and I wanted the experience of reading the story to match that feeling of anonymity as closely as possible.

At the time I wrote this, I was reading a lot about the lives of women in the very early Catholic Church. A bit of the inspiration came from how many of these women—often older and widowed, with families and ties—would leave their names and their whole lives to become itinerant preachers. At a time when older women had little direct power, they sought to become someone else and dedicate themselves to a new purpose. The narrator isn’t going through a religious conversion, but she does feel like she’s come to the end of one life.

In our previous interview (for “Seven Permutations of My Daughter”), you mentioned that you were working on a novel-length project: “YA-ish epic fantasy about a young woman who enlists in her empire’s army out of a need to eat rather than any love for her country, and who falls in love with the crown prince’s fiancée.” Any updates on the book? Or are there other projects in the works that new fans should know about?

 That project is still in the works. Learning how to write a novel has been a slow process, and over the past year I’ve really rethought what I want that story to be. Currently I’m going through some life changes (switching careers and making a big move to a new city) but I’m excited to get back to the novel when everything settles down again.

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.

Author Spotlight: Emma Törzs

Jude Griffin | 628 words

What was the genesis for “From the Root?”

 This is a long answer, because it taps into a current obsession of mine and I am incapable of reining myself in, but I promise my other answers will be short to compensate. So, last year I read and became infatuated with The Knife Man: Blood, Body Snatching, and the Birth of Modern Surgery, an excellent biography by Wendy Moore about the physician John Hunter. Hunter was a medical revolutionary during perhaps the most wretchedly disgusting period in all of Western medical history: England in the 1700-1800s. At a time when most physicians treated the symptoms of a disease without trying to comprehend the cause, Hunter was a dogged experimentalist who was absolutely intent on understanding the inner workings of the human body.

And in order to study the human body, Hunter needed—human bodies. He acquired these bodies mostly through illegal means, such as employing grave robbers to steal the corpses of the recently-dead, but he would also on occasion attempt to reserve someone’s body before they’d even died, as in the case of Charles Byrne, a traveling “freak” who suffered from gigantism. Byrne tried every means possible to evade Hunter’s dissection knife, even ensuring that after death his friends weighted his coffin with lead and sank him to the bottom of the English channel; but through a combination of bribery and pure deviousness, Hunter managed to secretly steal his body anyway, and Byrne’s skeleton is still on display in the Hunterian Museum. Which is super fucked up! And got me thinking about the monstrosities and atrocities behind medical and technological advancements, and thinking also about how badly I wanted to re-tell that story from a different perspective. Voilà?

What was it about the time and setting that felt right for this story?

 It was inspired by real historical events, so I kept the setting and time period the same. Georgian London was also right around the time when male doctors began trying in earnest to cash in on the business of midwifery, which had previously been one of the only medical fields available to women (besides, like, hedge-witchery), so that’s a historical backdrop, too.

Does the story title have a double meaning?

 In a sense, I guess. I was thinking of tooth roots, and finding the “root cause” of something, and also thinking of the umbilical cord as a kind of weird human-root through which we receive nutrients from the earth of our mother’s flesh, ew.

Your “Kvell” section on your website points to some wonderful stories, thank you! Did you only just start it or do you only keep posted the entries for a given calendar year? If the latter, I must plead for a peek at the archive from previous years.

 I only just started it! I don’t really have any social media, so I had nowhere to publicly brag about my brilliant friends—now I do.

Any projects or news you want to tell us about?

 I’m new to writing science fiction/fantasy, and as a grown-up writer I’d never written what you’d call a speculative story until this past summer, when I attended Clarion West. So I’m very excited right now about speculatizing pretty much everything. I’m like the John Stewart character in that movie Half Baked, but instead of, “Have you ever seen the back of a twenty-dollar bill . . . on weed?” it’s like, “Have you ever seen the back of a twenty-dollar bill . . . in space?!” Other than that, I’m working on a lit-fic novel.

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.

Coming Attractions

The Editors | 217 words

Coming up in July, in Lightspeed . . .

We have original science fiction by G.V. Anderson (“Waterbirds”) and Adam-Troy Castro (“Greetings, Humanity! Welcome To Your Choice of Species!”), along with SF reprints by Jay Lake (“Permanent Fatal Errors”) and Caroline M. Yoachim (“The Right Place to Start a Family”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by James Beamon (“A Song of Home, the Organ Grinds”) and Kyle Muntz (“Wild Bill’s Last Stand”), and fantasy reprints by Genevieve Valentine (“Aberration”) and Naomi Novik (“Castle Coeurlieu”).

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 a reprint of Kathleen Ann Goonan’s SF novella “The Tale of the Alcubierre Horse.” We’ll also have an exclusive book excerpt.

It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out.

• • • •

Looking ahead beyond next month, in September we’ll be celebrating the 100th issue of Lightspeed with a very special issue. You can look forward to fiction from some of our classic Lightspeed writers, including Kat Howard, Sam J. Miller, Ken Liu, Carrie Vaughn, Maria Dahvana Headley, and many more. We couldn’t be more excited about this one!

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

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

Violet Allen

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.