TABLE OF CONTENTS

Issue 101, October 2018

FROM THE EDITOR

Editorial: October 2018

SCIENCE FICTION

The Horror of Party Beach
Dale Bailey

Big Boss Bitch
Adrienne Celt

The Real You™
Molly Tanzer

Tribute
Jack Skillingstead

FANTASY

Kaleidoscope
Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Super-Luminous Spiral
Cameron Van Sant

The Dream Curator
Alex Irvine

Ten Deals with the Indigo Snake
Mel Kassel

NOVELLA

Investments
Walter Jon Williams

EXCERPTS

Dale Bailey | In the Night Wood
Dale Bailey

NONFICTION

Book Reviews: October 2018
Chris Kluwe

Media Review: October 2018
Carrie Vaughn

Interview: Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah
Christian A. Coleman

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

Dale Bailey

Cameron Van Sant

Molly Tanzer

Mel Kassel

MISCELLANY

Coming Attractions

Stay Connected

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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: October 2018

John Joseph Adams | 152 words

Welcome Lightspeed’s 101st issue!

This month, our cover art is by Reiko Murakami, illustrating new science fiction from Dale Bailey (“The Horror of Party Beach”). We also have new SF from Molly Tanzer (“The Real You™”), along with SF reprints by Adrienne Celt (“Big Boss Bitch”) and Jack Skillingstead (“Tribute”).

Our original fantasy shorts are by Cameron Van Sant (“Super-Luminous Spiral”) and Mel Kassel (“Ten Deals with the Indigo Snake”). We also have fantasy reprints by Silvia Moreno-Garcia (“Kaleidoscope”) and Alex Irvine (“The Dream Curator”).

All that, and of course we also have our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with our book and media review columns. We also have a feature interview with author Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah.

Our e-book exclusive novella reprint is “Investments” by Walter Jon Williams. Ebook readers can also enjoy an extract from Dale Bailey’s new novel In the Night Wood.

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 twelve times) and is a eight-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.

The Horror of Party Beach

Dale Bailey | 9450 words

Times have changed here. We’re not a bunch of kids anymore.

— Hank Green

All this happened a long time ago, in the summer when Blackboard Jungle ruled the screen, “Rock Around the Clock” shot up the charts, and Hal March asked the first $64,000 Question. That was the year our friend the atom lit up the streetlights of Arco, Idaho, the world’s first atomic city. Reddy Kilowatt had slain Bert the Turtle, who’d been telling us to duck and cover for years, and for a moment we let ourselves forget that Uncle Sam had spent the better part of the last decade irradiating the Nevada desert. What did we care about the contradictions of America’s Atomic Age? We were seventeen, and we’d thrown off the shackles of the classroom for another year. We slept late, and breakfasted on ice cream sodas at the New Graham Pharmacy. We played lazy games of pick-up baseball on the grass-worn municipal fields off Shippan Street. Most days, we went down to Party Beach.

That wasn’t its real name, of course. Maps had it down as Dane’s Cove, after the ill-fated captain of a nineteenth-century clipper that had gone down in the waters churning just off shore, and our parents, when they called it anything at all, mostly called it the sand beach, for it was the only stretch of anything remotely beach-like in a fifteen- or twenty-mile expanse of steep, rocky shoreline that left Maricove unspoiled long after the neighboring towns of Battleboro and Nash had bloomed into gaudy summer destinations. Even this unimaginative descriptor was not entirely accurate. The sand beach was really too small and rocky—not nearly sandy enough—to appeal to acolytes of surf and sun, and the currents there were too dangerous for swimming. But it was the perfect spot if you wanted to put “Maybelline” on the radio and dance beneath the stars; so in the summer before my senior year, the summer when rock ‘n’ roll was born and for one golden moment everything was possible, it came to be called Party Beach. And though the name would fall out of use after the horror that unfolded there, it has always remained Party Beach to me.

I’m an old man now, and most of my memories have faded like old photographs left too long in the sun, but my recollections of that summer—my recollections of Party Beach—stand apart. They are crisp and well-preserved, and if they are not wholly free from nostalgia, that nostalgia is tempered with the hard lessons that came at the end. That was the first summer that I had a car—a battered ’49 Mercury that I’d purchased with a loan against my earnings from bagging groceries down at the A&P. That was the summer I lost my virginity. That was the summer of Elaine Gavin.

I don’t want you to misunderstand me. Elaine wasn’t fast. There was nothing lurid or cheap, nothing shameful, about the moments we shared in the backseat of that old Merc, however fumbling and inexpert our amours might have been. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still smell the faint lavender scent of Elaine’s shampoo, and I can feel, for a fleeting heartbeat, the warmth of her embrace. But then the final horror sweeps over me once again, and I shudder and I jerk myself awake to stare out into the darkness, and listen. And though my house is almost a mile away from the sea, on those nights I can still hear the surf pounding upon the rocky shingle we called Party Beach.

• • • •

We met in Mr. Taylor’s chemistry class in the spring semester of our junior year, Elaine and I—really met, I mean. We’d known each other for years in the casual way you know kids that move in other circles—the ones you nod at as you pass in the hall, but never really pause to exchange a word with. And why would we talk? She was a loner, aloof and isolated—stuck up and wicked smart. Me? I was quiet, but well-liked. I knew the most popular kids, and even if I wasn’t quite one of them, I was always welcome in their company.

Not that it mattered to Elaine.

“I’ll take care of the thinking,” she told me when Mr. Taylor paired us up in lab. “You follow orders.”

It turned out to be a good arrangement. When it came to chemistry, I was fumbling and dim at best. Elaine, on the other hand, was brilliant. She regarded Mr. Taylor’s labs as dumbed-down lessons for kids with the intellects of capuchin monkeys.

She had, in short, inherited her father’s aptitude for science. Dr. Gavin—the Mad Scientist of Maricove—was widely regarded as a savant of the first order. A widower, he’d fled to Maricove from some southern university, for ill-defined but possibly scandalous reasons. He’d gone through two teaching jobs since then—first at Maricove College, then at the high school downtown—each departure attended by a fresh round of whispers: midnight power surges in the physics building, clandestine experiments in the chemistry lab. By the time Elaine matriculated as a Maricove Red Raider, he’d become a recluse in the sprawling Victorian house they shared out on Fingel’s Point. He hadn’t been seen in town for years, though passersby on Route 13 occasionally observed odd blue light flickering around the edges of his heavily curtained windows, and his mailman complained of the place’s persistent fishy miasma.

But there was no fishy stench to Elaine. She smelled—indefinably—wonderful, and she looked wonderful, too. She was lean and dark-eyed and quick to smile, with a pixie haircut that flattered her at least as much as Audrey Hepburn’s had flattered her in Roman Holiday, and maybe more. I soon came to look forward to our twice-weekly labs more than anything else in school, or out of it. I was halfway in love with her by mid-February, and more than halfway by the beginning of April. She said things like “Don’t drop that beaker, Mike” (I was always dropping beakers) and “Be careful with the Bunsen burner” (this, after an unfortunate accident involving a lab report and the sleeve of my second-best shirt). I was always saying things like—

Well, I was rarely saying things at all—and certainly not the things I wanted to say—though I didn’t do a very good job of hiding them, I guess, since I was always getting harassed about them in the locker room before gym. “When you gonna ask Brainiac from Planet X out, Mikey?” Scott Becker would ask, and John Moore would say, “Maybe she’s as mad as her mad scientist daddy,” and Floyd McKay would snap me with a towel and raise his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and add, “Mad in the sack, maybe,” and it would go on like that until finally Brad Clarke, quarterback of the Red Raiders, Big Man On Campus, and stand-up guy, would weigh in and put a stop to it, saying, “Lay off, fellas. Mikey here can ask out whoever he wants to.” But Mikey did nothing of the sort until one day—it was late in May, by then—Brad pulled me aside before English and batted me lightly on the back of the head. “You should go for it, Mike,” he said. “Can’t you see she’s wild about you?” In fact, I couldn’t see it, but I trusted Brad’s instincts. Wasn’t he dating Tina Laurel, the head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and all-around prettiest and most popular girl in school?

He was.

Which is how I wound up in chem lab the next day, stuttering, “Hey, Elaine, you think we should go see a movie this weekend or something?” And then, when she didn’t answer right away, “We don’t have to. It was just an—”

“Shut up, Mike,” she said. “I think that would be grand.”

She touched my hand, and I dropped my beaker in surprise. I stepped back and caught my sleeve on fire. “Gosh,” I said, as she shoved my arm under the spigot, twisted the handle, and doused the flames.

She laughed and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.

I felt like I’d caught fire all over again.

• • • •

I didn’t know anyone who’d ever been to Elaine’s house—had never heard of anyone even getting near the place aside from the aforementioned mailman. So it was with some apprehension that I turned my rusty beater of a Merc down Route 13 toward Fingel’s Point, and with greater apprehension still that I climbed the steps of the old house itself. The porch sagged, the wooden cladding had long since weathered gray, and if I detected a faint piscine tang in the air—nothing like the stench the mailman had described—I attributed it to the salty wind whipping up over the point.

I had just lifted my hand to knock—tentatively—when the door swung open before me.

Elaine stood on the other side, looking glamorous in a skirt and cardigan. She gave me another chaste peck on the cheek—more flames—and pulled me inside. “You have to meet Daddy,” she said, leading me through the dim foyer and into the room beyond, which swam with a strange, blue undersea light—a light reflected and refracted through dozens of huge aquariums, each schooling with fish. Some of them were the exotic beauties you saw in every hobbyist’s saltwater tank—clownfish and angelfish, dartfish and dottybacks. But some of them were exotic in other ways, in their sheer ugliness and unfamiliarity. I saw fish that seemed to be little more than mouths and curving, razor-edged teeth, bioluminescent fish and bewhiskered fish and heavy-lidded, drowsy-looking fish the size of my forearm. And in the largest tank a bizarre-looking fish that must have been four feet long.

“What is that thing?” I asked Elaine.

“That thing,” said a disembodied voice, “is a living fossil, young man.” And then the mysterious Dr. Gavin himself materialized out of the shadows, a tall man, well over six feet and gaunt to the point of emaciation, with a shock of dark hair that made him seem two or three inches taller still. His lab coat was filthy and he smelled of cigarette smoke and algae—though maybe that was only the odor of the room, which had through his long occupancy permeated his clothes and skin. Elaine would later tell me that he often fell asleep at his work. “He’s very devoted to his research,” she would say, though his devotion sounded more like obsession to me, a point that I remained silent on, as I would remain silent on other points as the summer went by. When I reached out to shake his hand, he didn’t seem to notice. He had the distracted air of a man who lived deep in his own thoughts. He had eyes only for the hideous fish.

“That thing,” he said, gesturing, “is a coelacanth, thought extinct for sixty-six million years until some lucky fisherman pulled one out of the waters off South Africa not two decades ago. His kind—the fish, not the fisherman—swam the ocean waters in the last days of the dinosaurs, young man. Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I . . . guess so.”

He nodded. “It’s a handsome creature,” he said. “Do you know the Cretaceous, then?”

I sputtered.

“My peers,” he went on, “such as they are, contend that climate change caused the demise of the dinosaurs. They are wrong. I believe that the impact of an enormous meteor wiped them out in the blink of an eye.” He drew his gaze back from the deeps of time and focused his considerable powers of concentration upon me. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Um, I—a meteor? Sir?”

He clapped me on the back. “Good. Elaine has told me of your aptitude for chemistry.”

“My aptitude for—”

“Ah. Well. You kids have fun tonight.”

With that, he turned away. I knew a dismissal when I heard one.

Outside, as we pulled out onto Route 13, I glanced at Elaine. “You told him I had an aptitude—”

She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek once again. When I felt her hand fall upon my thigh, I thought I might spontaneously combust.

“Didn’t you say something about a movie?” she asked.

Which is how we wound up seeing Revenge of the Creature at the Granada Theater downtown. We shared popcorn and a Coke, we ate a box of Junior Mints—and just as the Gill-man made his escape from captivity, I yawned and stretched, draping my arm as if by chance across the back of Elaine’s seat. She leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder. We watched the rest of the film that way. When the credits rolled and the lights came up—altogether too soon—she reached for my hand and we strolled out together into the night.

In the car, she said, “Do you know a place where we can talk awhile?”

“Won’t your dad be worried?”

She laughed quietly. Maybe there was a tinge of sorrow in the laugh. I couldn’t say for sure. “My dad doesn’t worry about things like that,” she said.

So we went to Party Beach.

• • • •

It didn’t occur to me to ask what kinds of things her dad did worry about—not then, anyway. And by the time the question did come to mind, it was too late: Events had ground to their inexorable conclusion.

But that night I could not imagine the horror yet to come. That night, the unpaved turnout overlooking Party Beach was empty. We had only a glittering multitude of stars for company. “Earth Angel” played softly on the radio as we gazed out across the black water. I wanted desperately to kiss Elaine, but I didn’t know how to go about it. I launched into some tedious observations about the movie instead.

Elaine pressed a finger to my lips. “Hush, Mike,” she said, and I hushed—enthusiastically, if it’s possible to hush enthusiastically. I was certainly enthusiastic about what followed. Elaine’s next kiss was neither shy nor chaste. We must have made out for an hour or more, as only seventeen-year-old virgins can make out. We made out until our lips were bruised, we made out until I could barely breathe. And by the time Elaine put an end to the proceedings—just as my hand was about to close over her breast—I was, literally, aching with desire.

“We’ll have another chance, Mike,” she said, and it was on that promise that I left her at her door.

• • • •

Elaine was true to her word. There were other chances—plenty of them, though never quite enough. Neither of us ever formalized the matter, but after that first session at Party Beach, we didn’t really need to: We both understood that we were going steady, in the parlance of the day, which translated to spending virtually every waking moment together—or every waking moment that I didn’t spend bagging groceries at the A&P, anyway. We shared chocolate shakes at Frankie’s Diner and movies at the Granada. We went parking out at Party Beach. My grades, never very good to start with, plunged. I might have failed my junior year altogether if I hadn’t managed to run out the clock on the semester.

But summer came, and I escaped unscathed. On my days off, Elaine and I went down to Party Beach with Brad and Tina Laurel and the rest of the gang—with Scott and his girlfriend Annette, with Floyd McKay and Susan Carver, with John Moore and half a dozen others. The radio was always on. The beat of the music—“Ain’t That a Shame” and “Good Rockin’ Tonight” and “Skinny Jim”—was like the beat of our hearts and we danced to that beat like no one had ever danced before. When we couldn’t dance anymore, we cooled our feet in the surf or sunned ourselves like cats and talked of dreams and love and rock ‘n’ roll. At night, when the breeze off the water turned cool, we built a fire and sat in a circle around it and talked some more, until we finally ran out of things to say and drifted away in pairs, up to the turnout where we’d parked our cars or off into the deeper shadows of the rocks, where we would spread a blanket and make out until our lips were sore and chafed.

And Elaine would swim. Nobody else ever went more than knee deep into the water off Party Beach. No one else wanted to chance the vicious riptide. But Elaine was fearless. She would swim at any time of day or night. “I think I’ll take a quick dip,” she’d announce, and the next minute she’d be gone. It scared the hell out of me every time she did it.

I wasn’t the only one who thought it was a bad idea.

I remember the first time we joined the gang down at Party Beach, two or three days after school got out. Everyone made Elaine feel welcome that day, even though she’d never moved in my circle and had always been held in disdain by those who did—mostly, I think, because she was the only kid at Maricove High who didn’t care about their opinion. With her dark good looks, her Audrey Hepburn hair, and her father’s brains, Elaine was above all that. She was a nation of one, and when that nation wanted to go swimming, it went swimming.

And on that first day, when the strains of “Baby, Let’s Play House” died in the afternoon air and we all collapsed in exhaustion, Elaine, flushed and beautiful from dancing, announced that she thought she’d take a swim.

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” Brad said.

“Why not?” she wanted to know, and as Brad answered, I saw a change come across Tina Laurel’s face. Sometimes I tell myself that everything that happened afterwards hinged upon that moment. But who can say? Maybe it was all foredoomed, from the minute I worked up the courage to ask Elaine Gavin out in the first place. Sometimes, I think it was. Sometimes—when I let myself—I know it.

But all I knew at the time was that Brad was being his usual fundamentally decent self.

Why not swim? Elaine wanted to know. “The rip is really dangerous here,” he said.

“The rip doesn’t scare me,” Elaine said.

And when Brad started to speak again, Tina interrupted him. “Let her swim if she wants to, Brad.”

“But—”

“What’s it to you?” Tina said. “Mikey’s the one that brought her here, isn’t he? Let him worry about it.”

And the thing is, I did worry about it. Worried as I turned to register my own anxieties on the point (too late, Elaine was already waist-deep in the cold Atlantic) and worried as I watched her dive into an incoming wave and worried most of all when she didn’t surface on the other side.

Silence, then. The sigh of the ocean, the cry of a gull.

“Now she’s stepped in it,” Floyd said.

And John Moore, “Where’d she go?”

I glanced down at the second hand of my watch. A full minute slipped by, and then another one. By then I was really worried.

I started toward the water. I don’t know what I was planning, exactly. I guess I was going in after her—there didn’t seem to be any other choice—though I was a lousy swimmer even in calm water. Heck, I was a lousy swimmer in the shallow end of a bathtub. The riptide at Party Beach would have chewed me up and spat me out to sea in no time. I could already feel the relentless pull of the current when Brad dropped a hand on my shoulder. “Hang on, Mikey, I’m coming, too.”

“No, Brad, stop,” Tina harangued him from behind. “Come back here! I said come back here!”

But Brad ignored her. He followed me into the water not because he wanted to show me up or claim Elaine’s affections for himself. No, Brad did it, as he did most things, out of a kind of selfless good will. He was everything any of us wanted to be. A natural on the gridiron and in the classroom, he had the handsome, blond charisma and self-deprecating wit of an A-list movie star. We should have hated him, but we could not. He was too open-hearted for that. He could no more have left Elaine at the mercy of the rip than he could have passed an accident on the highway without stopping to make sure everyone was okay. But we were both saved from heroics that day. We were still thigh-deep in the water when Elaine surfaced maybe fifty yards out.

“Come in!” I called.

And Brad: “It’s dangerous out there, Elaine!”

Her voice boomed across the water. “I’m fine!” she shouted. “I’ll be in soon!”

She was as good as her word. Five minutes later, ten at the most, she came wading out of the surf like a Nereid. Tina was waiting behind us, and as the three of us turned back to the beach, I saw in her cold, adamantine glare that she now hated Elaine, and thus we all came to ruin.

• • • •

By the middle of June, Elaine was eating dinner with my family two or three times a week. My mother smiled and said that she had beautiful eyes. My father clapped me on the back and said that I was playing out of my league. My little sister asked if she could get a pixie haircut, too. In short, my family adored her.

I was less sure that Dr. Gavin approved of me.

I had not seen him since that first night. I had not even been admitted into the house again. When I picked her up, Elaine was always waiting outside for me. When I dropped her off, she left me with a kiss at the bottom of the stairs.

The first time I asked her if her father minded us spending so much time together, she told me not to worry about it. The second time I asked, she said that he was very busy with his research. The third time I asked, she invited me to dinner.

“Dinner?” I said.

“Dinner,” she said.

“At your house?”

“Yes.”

“But who’s going to cook?”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Who do you think cooks, Mike?”

She cooked—and she did a darn fine job of it, too. She served a far more exotic meal than my mother’s customary fare of roast beef or fried chicken: firm white swordfish steaks (I had to ask what kind of fish it was), potatoes au gratin, and pan-roasted asparagus and mushrooms. We ate in a room off the lab. Fresh flowers and a white linen tablecloth, candles and wine. Nothing like I’d ever seen before.

Dr. Gavin sat at the head of the table, picking at his food. Elaine and I sat to either side.

There was little conversation until I asked Dr. Gavin what he was working on. He dropped his napkin beside his plate. “Evolution,” he said.

“Evolution?”

“Evolution.” He finished his wine and sat back in his chair, steepling his long fingers before him. “At some point in the Devonian, a primitive fish crawled out of the sea and took its first breath of air. Four hundred million years later, here we are. Surely, you’ve wondered how that happened.”

I hadn’t. My curiosity at that time pretty much came to an end with my own evolutionary urges—most of which I hoped to someday visit upon this man’s daughter—but now that I’d gotten him talking—

“Sure,” I said. “But I thought we had fossils—“

“The fossil record is laughably incomplete,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. He leaned toward me. “And I’m not interested in old bones. I want to see how it happened. I want to see it for myself.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“A generation ago perhaps, but now, well—what’s the secret of evolution, young man?”

I had no idea—did anyone?—but I cast around for some phrase or other to toss into the conversational mix. I came up with “survival of the fittest.”

Dr. Gavin looked pained. “It’s a poor synonym for natural selection. How does one become more fit than one’s fellows?”

“I— I don’t know.”

“Mutation,” Elaine said.

I looked at her. “What?”

“Mutation, Mike,” she said, speaking as you might speak to an especially dense child. “Some kind of random error in the organism’s DNA.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Gavin said. “Nine times out of ten, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it’s not particularly useful—you have blue eyes and I have brown, but we both see just fine. But sometimes, over thousands of generations, a gill becomes a lung, a fish comes crawling up the beach to colonize a new environmental niche, and from that—“

“Everything,” Elaine said, “elephants to insects,” and the way she said it, it sounded like she was repeating something she’d heard a thousand times over.

Dr. Gavin patted his daughter’s arm. “Elephants to insects—well, not insects, exactly, but it’s a handy mnemonic isn’t it, dear?”

Elaine smiled, and I saw in the radiance of that smile how devoted she was to her father and her father’s work. “But you just said mutation takes thousands of generations. How—”

“Ah. Good question, young man. Come with me.”

He stood, and led us into the lab. It was like being in a bathysphere made of glass, with oceanic blue light all around us. I stared at the fish in their abundance, the enormous coelacanth among them. The thing hung motionless at the bottom of its cramped tank, large-eyed and armored, with fins that looked almost like—

“Legs,” I said.

“And a vestigial lung in its abdomen,” Dr. Gavin said. “Fascinating creature. A window upon the past. Evolution in action.”

He gazed at it fondly.

Elaine said, “Fish reproduce in far greater numbers than we do—“

“They spawn,” Dr. Gavin said. “Fish spawn,” and out of the entire conversation it is that phrase that most haunts me—that and what he said next. “The common carp can spawn multiple times in a single season, producing as many as 300,000 eggs each time. The odds of mutation expand exponentially with each clutch of eggs, young man. And if you goose the process along . . .”

“How would you do that?” I asked.

“Radiation,” Elaine said. “How else?”

• • • •

Mushroom clouds bloomed in my mind on the drive home. I could almost see them in the windshield before me, hanging over the atom-blasted cinders of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I’d spent my youth playing in backyard bomb shelters and hiding under my desk when the air-raid sirens went off. From the time I was a kid, bizarre rumors had abounded: giant ants in the sewers of L.A., monsters in the Sea of Japan.

Talk of the atom was always in the air.

The atom was going to destroy us. The atom was going to set us free.

One way or the other, the atom was going to remake our world.

I hadn’t expected it to remake my world, though—not so soon, anyway.

Yet the minute Elaine had said the word—

—radiation—

—I felt the geography of our relationship shift. I saw her for the first time not as a mere observer to her father’s experiments but as an active collaborator. Elephants and insects, that radiant and adoring smile.

I imagined a leaking metal barrel overturned in a patch of dead weeds out on the windswept precipice of Fingel’s Point. Dr. Gavin hunched over it, drawing up into a syringe a glowing green fluid that he would soon inject into the waters of an experimental aquarium. Fish spawn, he said, and 300,000 irradiated eggs drifted to the mossy bottom to rest.

What if the mad scientist of Maricove really was mad?

What if his daughter was as mad as he was?

• • • •

I managed to shunt these questions aside until a Saturday night toward the middle of July. I still remember the sky blue pedal pushers and black ballet flats she wore that night. I had planned to take her out for a burger at Frankie’s, followed by the creepshow down at the Granada. But we wound up in a booth near the door of the diner, shooting the breeze with Floyd and Susan instead. Scott and Annette joined us after a while, and then Brad and Tina stopped by, and before you knew it we’d missed the start of the movie.

Outside, rain lashed the windows.

Somebody suggested we stop down at Tom’s Billiards Parlor to shoot a couple games of pool. “Sounds good to me,” Brad said, tossing a handful of silver on the table. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” But as we stood to go, Elaine said, “I think I’m going to have to pass tonight.”

“What’s wrong?” Brad said, and Tina shot him a murderous glare.

“I’m feeling a little queasy.”

“Maybe something disagreed with you,” Tina said.

Elaine ignored her. “Do you mind driving me home, Mike?”

I tried to hide my disappointment. “Sure,” I said.

But five minutes later, as I pulled out of Frankie’s lot and spun the wheel toward Fingel’s Point, my windshield wipers slapping the rain away, Elaine said, “Let’s go out to Party Beach instead.”

“I thought you were sick.”

“I’m feeling better now,” she said.

But if she was, it was hard to tell. She spent most of the drive in a brown study, gazing out at the rain. When “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” came on the radio, I turned it up loud. I always did go for the fast ones. Elaine didn’t say a word. She just reached out and dialed it back to a whisper. Without the backbeat to pound out the rhythm of my heart, I felt more lonesome than I’d ever felt before—and this though she was right there on the bench beside me, everything I’d ever dreamed of and then some.

I wheeled the Merc into the turnout and killed the engine, nose out to the ocean. Rain hammered the roof. On the radio, just barely audible, the Platters swung into “Only You.” Inspired by the sentiment, I slid my arm around Elaine and leaned in to kiss her. She pressed her palm against my chest. I turned away and looked out into the night. I took the steering wheel in both hands. Outside the rain came down and down. A sense of foreboding possessed me.

“Did you bring me here to break up with me, Elaine?”

She didn’t answer for a long time. Then, quietly: “No, though maybe I should.”

A tide shifted within me, dark water drawing back to reveal the jagged stones beneath. “Elaine—“

“I’m afraid, Mike.”

“Of what?”

“I’ve never felt anything like this. It scares me. It’s like a current way out in the deep water, pulling at me. Pulling and pulling. And I’m afraid I’ll drown.” She hesitated. “Do you ever think about our first date?”

And what came back to me was the way she had pillowed her head against my shoulder as the movie flickered on the screen before us. That, and the way her hand had slipped so naturally into mine as we exited the theater. She’d brought me out to Party Beach that night, as well. I remembered the taste of her lips against my own. Did I think about our first date? “All the time,” I said, turning to look at her.

“Me, too.” She laughed. “Sometimes I think about that silly movie. How sad it made me.”

“Sad?”

“Well, the creature was lonely, wasn’t it? It wanted to be loved. And who doesn’t want that?”

Who indeed?

“Do you love me, Mike?”

Something quickened inside me.

“Yes,” I said. “I love you, Elaine.”

Elaine didn’t say anything, but she came into my arms and this time when my hand crept up to her breast, she leaned into me and kissed me hard and I took that as answer enough. Her pedal pushers ended up on the floor that night, her blouse beside them. As she rose up over me, headlights illuminated the interior of the car. In a panic, I pulled her down out of the line of sight, but it was too late. I’d seen her frozen above me. Whoever was in the other car must have seen her, too. And then the lights swept past. The other car accelerated back onto the highway, engine roaring.

“Shit,” I said. “They must have—”

“It’s okay. They’re gone now,” she said, and she began to rock against me once again, and then there was only the heat of her body in the car, and outside the rain and the dark ocean muscling up the beach.

The Moonglows lit up the radio dial, crooning “I’ll do anything for you.”

“Promise me you’ll forgive me, Mike,” she whispered at my ear. “Whatever happens, promise me you’ll forgive me.”

I promised.

• • • •

Outwardly, things were better than ever after that. Elaine and I scarfed down burgers at Frankie’s. We took in the latest creature-features at the Granada. And we made love with increasing frequency, parking out at Party Beach when no was around, and scouting out other locations—an abandoned quarry, a forsaken mill—when someone was.

In many ways, it was the happiest time of my life.

But disquieting questions—questions I could not bring myself to ask—shadowed my thoughts. When we saw Creature with the Atom Brain (radioactive zombies) and It Came from Beneath the Sea (radioactive octopus), I couldn’t help recalling her father’s unorthodox obsessions. And sometimes, as I drifted off to sleep, I heard her urgent plea for forgiveness and I wondered what it was she had to fear.

There were portents of the horror to come, as well, though I did not recognize them at the time. When we’d started dating, Elaine had barely picked at her food. Now she routinely put away her burger—she liked them rare—and a double order of fries. She drank chocolate shakes like water. When my mother served apple pie for dessert, she always took the largest slice. And she spent more time than ever in the treacherous waters off Party Beach, often disappearing for an hour or more.

“Maybe she’s a mermaid,” John Moore remarked one night as we sat talking around the fire.

“Maybe she has a boyfriend with a boat,” Tina said.

“Tina!” Brad said.

But Tina shrugged and flipped her hair. “I’m just looking out for Mikey.”

“Mike can look out for himself.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Tina said, and the truth was I wasn’t so sure of it myself.

I tried not to listen to Tina, but I had my own worries about Elaine.

After the party broke up, we lingered on the beach alone, watching the fire burn down. “Tina says you have a boyfriend with a boat,” I told her.

“And what do you say, Mike?”

“Well, I don’t think you have another boyfriend,” I said, “but I do worry about you out there. Every time you disappear like that, I wonder if you’re going to wash up down shore somewhere.”

“Well, you needn’t worry about that.”

“But what if you get a cramp or something?”

“I don’t get cramps.”

“Elaine—”

“Hush, Mike,” she said, pulling me down to the sand beside her, and when I protested again, she put her lips to mine and one thing led to another and we ended up making love right there on the beach, with the surf crashing at our feet and a million stars looking down. It wasn’t everything it’s cracked up to be—sand gets in the damnedest places—but it was pretty fine, and by the time we finished, my questions were—for the moment, anyway—forgotten.

• • • •

But “Hush, Mike” could only work for so long, even when paired with her considerable physical charms. The bathysphere glow of her father’s lab irradiated my dreams, and as the summer crested and began its long decline toward my senior year at Maricove High, strange fish schooled in my thoughts. Where did Elaine go during her long sojourns at sea? What promise had she exacted from me?

I got my answers—and terrible answers they were—one night toward the end of August, with school looming just over the horizon. The whole thing began down at Frankie’s.

We’d just finished eating—Elaine had put away two burgers, to my amazement—and she had excused herself to the restroom to powder her face. She’d taken her compact and a lipstick, leaving her purse open on the table, another chance decision that changed everything—for the ladies room door had no sooner swung closed behind her than Jeff Callahan and Chris Smith walked by. It was innocent horseplay, nothing more, but Jeff happened to give Chris a playful body check as they passed. Chris staggered against our booth—

“Watch out!” I said.

—nearly upsetting the table.

A half-empty milkshake went over, spilling cold, soupy chocolate into my lap.

Cursing, I yanked a handful of napkins from the table-top dispenser in a futile effort to contain the damage. Chris and Jeff just stood there, mouths agape.

“Wow,” Chris said, “that doesn’t look good.”

“Why don’t you watch what you’re doing?”

“Hey,” Chris said. He held up his hands, palms out, an innocent man. “Blame Jeff, he’s the one that pushed me.”

“Here,” Jeff said, reaching for a napkin, “let me help you.”

“It’s all over my pants. What do you think you’re gonna do? Just get out of here!”

“Fine,” Jeff said, and as they beat feet out of the place, he gave Chris another playful shove. “He didn’t have to get bent about it,” he said, pushing out into the night.

I reached for another wad of napkins, did a little more damage control, and tossed the whole soggy mess onto the table. That’s when I saw that my pants weren’t the only casualty of the impact. Elaine’s purse had gone overboard, spraying half its contents across the bench opposite. The other half—and the purse itself—had wound up under the table.

Cursing again, I leaned down to retrieve it, shoving the debris piece by piece back inside its gaping mouth—a rubber change purse that you squeezed open to get at the silver inside, a wallet, a little box of Kleenex, a—

“What happened?” Elaine said.

I straightened up, startled, clutching her purse in one hand and some random bit of flotsam in the other one. I caught my head on the lip of the table. Another milkshake—this one empty—came crashing down beside me. I sighed.

“Here,” Elaine said, reaching out to haul me up. “Watch your head!”

I watched my head.

Back on the daylit side of the table, I handed her the purse.

“What happ—” she started to ask again—and broke off, abruptly silent. She swallowed.

“What?” I said, and then I realized that she was staring at my hand.

I looked down—and that’s when I saw what I had plucked up from the shadows: the narrow glass barrel of a syringe. When I held it out toward her, a little ripple ran through the glowing green fluid inside.

“What is this, Elaine?”

“Come on, Mike,” she said. “Let’s go for a drive.”

• • • •

Neither one of us said anything for the longest time. I drove without destination, I drove by reflex, I drove to Party Beach, and at last, as the night rushed past the windows, Elaine said, “I never told you about my mother.”

“You did. You told me she died from complications when you were born.”

“I never told you the truth.”

I drove.

I said, “Is that all you’ve lied to me about?”

Her silence was all the answer I needed. I felt that tide receding, the jagged rocks beneath.

“I’m not sure this is going to work out, Elaine.”

“You promised me, Mike. You promised me that you’d forgive me. No matter what happened, you said that you’d forgive me.”

I drove.

“So tell me what happened to your mother.”

“I was just a kid.”

“What happened to her, Elaine?”

“They blamed my father, but it was the cancer that got her. It was in her bones. The last time I saw her, she looked like a skeleton, she’d lost so much weight. I could see the skull inside her face. It was so painful at the end. I can still hear her screaming.”

“Elaine—“

“It’s okay,” she said. “Just drive.”

I drove.

“Why’d they blame your dad?” I asked.

“He was so close to saving her, Mike. If she’d lasted another six months . . .”

I looked over at her. In the backwash from the dash lights, I could see tears on her face. “But why would you lie?” I asked.

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

I turned on my signal. We pulled into the turnout by Party Beach. I inventoried the cars. The whole gang was there. Floyd and Susan were there. Scott and Annette. And Brad and Tina, of course. I sometimes tell myself that things might have turned out differently if they’d chosen to see a movie that night instead.

I parked the car and killed the engine. We sat there and listened to it tick. Outside the sea heaved, gnawing down the edge of the continent. A fire burned on the beach. Figures stood in silhouette against the flames.

“I didn’t want you to leave me, Mike.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would I leave you over that?”

“Not that,” she said.

“Then what?”

“What if my mother’s disease was inherited?”

“What are you talking about? Are you sick?”

She sighed. “My father made the diagnosis at Christmas.”

“Cancer?”

“He thought he’d perfected the treatment. We thought I’d be okay.”

“Are you going to—”

I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

“No. But—” She took a long breath. “I’m changing, Mike. I can’t control it anymore.”

I thought of the syringe—I thought of that glowing green fluid—and those bizarre rumors came back to me: giant ants in the sewers of Los Angeles, monsters in the Sea of Japan.

“What’s in the syringe, Elaine?”

“Radiation to kill the cancer cells,” she said. “And—”

She broke off. She turned away.

“And what?”

She hesitated. “Blood. Blood to bolster my immune system.”

“What are you talking about? What blood?”

“The blood of the coelacanth,” she said.

• • • •

Much of what she said afterward is a blur—unexpected side effects, rapid cellular mutation, re-emergent DNA. None of it meant anything to me, and I couldn’t focus, anyway. I kept seeing that massive armored fish floating serenely at the bottom of its aquarium: evolution’s abortion, a Darwinian dead end that had never quite managed to crawl out of the sea. The thought of that monster’s irradiated blood flowing in Elaine’s veins nauseated me. Recoiling in horror, I clawed at the door and flung it open. I stumbled outside, into the cool air sweeping in off the ocean, and collapsed against Scott’s car, too dizzy to stand on my own. When the vertigo passed, I stood unsteady on my feet, and surveyed the night. A full moon hung overhead and a breeze swept in off the ocean. A fire burned down by the water. Brad’s voice came to me—

“Hey, Mike, why don’t you guys get yourselves down here!”

—and I lurched off toward the beach. I didn’t feel any better by the time I got there, but I must have looked okay. No one seemed to notice anything other than the lingering stain of the milkshake, anyway—and even that elicited only a few jokey asides (“You might want to see a doctor about that,” John Moore said) before the gang lost interest and Brad asked me what I’d done with Elaine.

“She’ll . . . be down in a few minutes,” I said.

But she was already there, coming along behind me. I hadn’t heard her, she moved so lightly on her feet, and when she said, “I’m here,” it startled me.

I turned, but she lingered in the shadows.

“Well, aren’t you going to join us?” Scott asked.

“I think I’ll take a swim first,” she said, moving on down toward the water.

“Weirdo,” Tina said and Brad sighed and said, “Why can’t you be nice to her?”

“Maybe because you’re too nice,” Tina retorted, and after a brief, awkward silence, talk turned to the upcoming school year. I think we all felt it slipping away, that one golden summer, and there was a funereal solemnity to the conversation. In nine months we’d graduate to adult life: jobs, college, marriage: everything we’d longed for and dreaded for so long. But for one shining moment, we were still teenagers.

Or they were.

I felt like I’d already slipped across the line, into the fuzzy gray territory beyond. Promises you couldn’t keep, losses you had not anticipated—such was the price of love. I’d been a fool to think that I could bear it.

I didn’t want to grow up. In some sense I already had.

So I sat on a rock at the periphery of the circle and gazed into the fire and when Brad hunkered down beside me and asked me if I was okay, I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t, of course. I didn’t know if I’d ever be okay again.

“You and Elaine have a fight?”

“No, we’re fine.”

“Are you? Because you don’t seem fine.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“If you need to talk—”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then.” He clapped me on the shoulder and moved back toward the fire.

“What’s wrong with him?” I heard Susan ask. Brad said something I couldn’t make out and the conversation resumed, leaving me to my funk.

I was still sitting there when Elaine came back and everything went to hell.

• • • •

There was something wrong with her gait. There was something wrong with her face.

These were subtle changes, invisible, in that light, to anyone who didn’t know her as intimately as I had come to know her in the last few months. No one else seemed to notice, anyway. But they did notice the sallow cast to her face.

“Hey, Elaine. Are you okay?” Brad said. “You look a little green.”

I stood. “Elaine?” I said.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

“You know what causes that, don’t you?” Tina said.

Elaine turned to look at her—we all turned to look at her. Tina raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you’ve been spending too much time in the back seat of Mikey’s car.”

“Tina!” Brad said sharply.

But it did no good. Now that she had the stage, Tina was determined to give us a show. “We saw you that night in the rain, Brad and I,” she said. “I hope it was good for you. When’s little Mikey due?”

Elaine was too sick to answer.

She clutched at her midsection and retched and retched again, spewing the contents of her stomach into Tina’s face. Tina reeled away, shrieking and swiping at her eyes. The stench was atrocious—a noxious piscine reek—and as I stood by, stunned, I saw, in the stew of fish guts steaming in the sand at Tina’s feet, a single severed tentacle, still twitching.

Elaine cried in horror, lifting her hands to her face.

Only they weren’t hands—not human hands, anyway. They were the hands of some monstrous thalassic super-predator: enormous hands with long webbed fingers and hooked, black talons. When she saw them, Elaine moaned. She met my gaze across the fire. I felt some obscure communication—sorrow or regret—pass between us. And then she melted back into the gloom.

“Elaine!” Brad shouted. “Come back!”

He looked at me. I was still standing there stupefied, wondering—I am ashamed to say—how many times Elaine had returned from such a filthy repast to press her lips to mine. Brad must have seen the shock in my eyes. “I’ll get her,” he said. “You take care of Tina.” Before I could speak, he was gone, sprinting off into the shadows. I stood there, staring after him, listening to Tina rant. “Look what that bitch did to me,” she screamed. “Look at me!”

So I looked at her—she was a mess, all right—and then, when she called Elaine a bitch for the second time, I did the only thing I could think to do. I slapped her across the face. Her head snapped back, and she stared at me with the huge, bewildered eyes of a spoiled child who has run hard up against reality for the first time in her life. She reached up to touch the corner of her mouth, where a thread of blood had started down her chin, and I felt an influx of shame stronger than any shame I’d ever felt before.

“You hit me,” she said.

I said nothing in reply. What was there to say?

I turned away instead.

They were all standing there, dumbfounded, mouths agape. Annette was sobbing quietly. Floyd was the only one who tried to stop me.

“Wait, Mike,” he said as I pushed past him. “I don’t think I would go out there if I were you. There was something wrong with her hands. Did you see that, guys? There was something wrong with Elaine’s hands.” He reached for me. “Mike, buddy, please—”

“Get off me, Floyd.”

“Mike—”

He fell back at the edge of the light. After a minute, the surf drowned out his voice.

I kept walking, following Brad’s footprints out across the damp rocky sand.

I needed to find Elaine. I had a promise to keep.

• • • •

Floyd was right about one thing: Brad should never have followed Elaine out into the darkness. If he hadn’t, I think she might have retreated to the sea. As it was—well, her appetite had been increasing for weeks. I’d seen that for myself. She must have been burning all kinds of energy managing the transformations, with her long swims alone providing some relief. When she finally lost control, the thing she’d become had glutted itself, choking down a surfeit that she couldn’t stomach when she regained her human form. So now the atavism that lurked within her was ravenous.

Brad was dead, of course.

She’d taken him down in a maze of rocks, where the fingernail paring of beach gave way to the great seaside cliffs that ran all the way north to Battleboro. The crash of the incoming tide was so loud down there that if he had cried out I wouldn’t have heard him. But it must have been quick. His head was rolling around at the edge of the surf when I found them, and Elaine—the thing that had been Elaine—had already begun to feed. She’d torn his guts open with those hooked talons, and she was scraping out the cavity within. When I said her name, she looked up, loops of viscera dangling from her teeth.

Those teeth. My God, the thing was all teeth. They must have been three or four inches long: curving, razor-edged needles, blood slick and dripping with the tissue of Brad’s intestines. Its yellow eyes were set far back beneath a bony shelf, its face framed in folds of tissue that must have been gills—all of it, everything, swept back, streamlined as a bullet, perfectly evolved for hunting the warm Devonian seas.

When it saw me, the thing sprang over Brad’s body on legs sheathed in muscle. Its momentum carried me backward to the beach. For a moment, supine upon the rocky sand, I struggled to free myself, clawing in vain at its slick, armored carapace. And then I was still. The monster hissed, its jaws unhinging not two inches from my face. Its gullet stank of blood and shit and rotting fish.

I said, “Elaine—”

And the creature paused.

“I forgive you,” I said.

• • • •

In the end, the story we settled on was that Brad and Elaine had decided—against our advice—to go for a swim. We told the police that they’d never returned. The vicious riptide must have dragged them out to sea. An early-morning search of the beach turned up Brad’s remains. In the end, the investigation concluded—officially, anyway—that he’d been attacked by a shark out there in the midnight waters. Even the most cursory examination of his body would surely have shown otherwise. No shark would have inflicted that type of damage. But if the authorities had some other theory, they weren’t talking.

As for Elaine? Presumed drowned.

I knew better, of course—I’d watched her disappear into the dark water—but I wasn’t talking. And that might have been the end of it. But I kept thinking about that night I’d eaten dinner with Elaine and her father. Elephants and insects, Dr. Gavin had said. I want to see evolution in action. It was those words more than anything else that led me to turn my old Merc out toward Fingel’s Point a month or two later.

The whole world had changed by then. School had started back, but it seemed like a formality. Those of us who’d been on Party Beach that night had already graduated into adulthood, with its attendant griefs and ambiguities. We didn’t spend much time together after that—I think the truth was too unbearable—and none of the other kids wanted much to do with us either. Without Brad, we each of us drifted into our solitary orbits. Floyd and Susan broke up almost immediately. Scott and Annette hung on a little longer, but by Homecoming they too had gone their separate ways.

The house on Fingel’s Point, however, remained unchanged. Its porch still sagged. Its cladding was still gray. Stepping out of my car was like stepping into the past. When I rang the bell, I half expected Elaine to open the door, gorgeous in her skirt and cardigan. Dr. Gavin opened it instead. His shock of hair stood up uncombed. His lab coat was filthy.

“I suppose you want to come in,” he said.

“No, I just came to ask you a question.”

“Hurry up, then. I have things to do.”

I took a deep breath. “Elaine was never sick, was she? Or her mother either?”

Dr. Gavin stared at me for a long time. He laughed. “You’re brighter than I thought you were,” he said, and then he shut the door in my face. I heard the deadbolt turn, and I turned away and drove back to Maricove, where seven months later I graduated high school at last and became a manager down at the A&P and went on to lead a long and ordinary life. I’m an old man now and that really is the end of it.

Except—

Except I happened to turn on the TV the other morning to learn that the savaged bodies of swimmers have started showing up on beaches all up and down the coast. Twenty-four of them so far, and it’s not yet June. Shark Summer they’re calling it, the deadliest year on record. The best guess is that fished-out hunting grounds and polluted ocean waters are altering predation patterns. But the marine biologist on TV had his doubts. The force quotient of the bite is all wrong, he said, the wound structure atypical.

“But what could it be then?” the anchor wanted to know.

“You tell me,” he said.

You tell me. I wondered if he really wanted to know.

When’s little Mikey due? Tina Laurel asked inside my head, and what I thought of was Dr. Gavin schooling me on the mating habits of the common carp. Fish spawn, he’d said, and as I sat there in front of the TV, I imagined 300,000 eggs drifting to the ocean floor, and I thought about those polluted ocean waters and those fished-out hunting grounds, driving my children into the shallows to feed.

©2018 by Dale Bailey. | Art © 2018 by Reiko Murakami.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dale Bailey is the critically-acclaimed author of several books, including The End of the End of Everything and The Subterranean Season. His story “Death and Suffrage” was adapted for Showtime’s Masters of Horror television series. His short fiction has won the Shirley Jackson Award and the International Horror Guild Award, has been nominated for the Nebula and Bram Stoker awards, and has been frequently reprinted in best-of-the-year anthologies, including Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. His latest novel, In the Night Wood, is available from John Joseph Adams Books. He lives in North Carolina with his family.

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

Big Boss Bitch

Adrienne Celt | 3140 words

The woman began as an idea, as so many women do. She couldn’t be entirely beautiful, because that would stretch credibility too far. She couldn’t be ugly, either, though. A face with just enough lines that on a man it would be called rugged or handsome; but let’s put a little makeup on to smooth the edges, hmm? For clothing, a pantsuit, and sometimes a skirt. Recognizable brands made invisible through smart cuts and conservative hemlines. And let’s make sure that she smiles. A little razzle-dazzle. You can see how her husband found her pretty, once.

We picked out our woman in Oklahoma. Six weeks of traveling all throughout the Middle West before we got results. Casting would’ve been easier in California or New York, but these days people always look for the provenance, and why include an elitist factor that will just have to be explained away? This girl screams Real America, the way a cheerleader would in the last quarter of the game. She was runner-up Homecoming Queen, 1979. Now she helps her dad run a cattle ranch; the grass is so green it’s blue, so blue the horizon bleeds into the sky.

That is, she helped her dad. Until she started helping us.

We picked her up off the street. She was walking around looking for a leather worker to repair a pair of stirrups. “He switched storefronts,” she said. “Can you believe it? Same sign, same everything, but move it down a block and a half and I can’t pick the damn place out. Been coming here for the past twenty years.” Her laughter was self-effacing, aw-shucks, and revealed a few too many smile lines beside the eyes. But these could be handled with a deft concealer brush. We asked if there was someplace we could go talk. About what? she wanted to know. A proposition. What kind? Well. How would she like to serve her country?

• • • •

It doesn’t take a lot of convincing to get someone to accept a mantle of power. We were counting on that. And also on the fact that she wouldn’t read too far into the fine print before signing on the dotted line, and didn’t have too many ideas for what needed to change in our great nation. General concepts, inarticulable feelings: great. A new day for America. Stand up for the little guy. It was convenient that she still used male pronouns; not everyone does. Even people you don’t expect to be vehicles for inclusivity slip and say “they” instead of “he,” though the grammar books won’t back them up. One less thing we would have to coach her on. She teared up a little when we told her she was just what the country needed, and that, too, is a talent that can’t always be taught. Just enough emotion at just the right moment. Powerful, but soft. Like a blanket that’s put through the wash a hundred times, a thousand.

• • • •

Our job is to give the people what they’re clamoring for. In moderation, of course. Figure out what they desire and then turn it into something they actually need, like those terrible chocolate chip cookies your mom makes with grated zucchini inside. The people wanted a woman, but they didn’t understand in what capacity. So many different kinds out there, and only us to find the right one. Welcome, open, elusive, chagrined. She wanted to be president, but only after we told her so.

The campaign trail was a dream. A few hiccups in the primaries from those on our side of the aisle who couldn’t see the bigger picture. But once we hit the main stage, things clicked into place. Sometimes after giving a speech she’d start to walk away from the mic and then turn around, flashing a last grin for the cameras. We hoped it would trigger some vestigial supermodel response, a little glimmer of unattainable warmth between the thighs. The newspapers called her a strong woman and a force to be reckoned with, and she was quickly spoofed by variety shows and ambitious comedians. Her name was in the headlines every day. We hardly had to try.

• • • •

Now, we aren’t sure exactly when people started looking to their politicians and expecting to see a mirror, but these days that’s the game we’re playing. Everyone knows it. People turn on the TV and want their better selves reflected back. It can be a boon: much easier to find someone folksy than a genuine visionary, a policy miracle. An empathetic, systematic, deep-digging go-getter with an eye on the prize. Not to mention the grace to get through all those interminable dinners with foreign dignitaries while carrying off couture. Even a well-fitted tux can start to feel restrictive after a few roulades de marmelade avec une ice vanille, if you know what we mean.

(As a side note, this is one area of diplomacy we identified early on in which women actually shine brighter. They have generations of experience saying no, it looks lovely, but I couldn’t possibly, well maybe just one bite. Like how women do well in submarines because they’re designed, as it were, for interpersonal conflict resolution. It’s a scientifically proven element of nurturing.)

But the mirror. The mirror. At last the country figured out that anyone could hold one, and they began to get tetchy about it. They wanted to project their dreams into the nethersphere by ticking off a box in a booth—which we admit is a beautiful idea. But it takes planning to make it work. People drop mirrors all the time. They crack. We needed something scratchproof, not too heavy, classically designed. The pride of Inola High School, OK, and a prize-winning member of 4-H. Pliable, friable, and a decent physical specimen. Don’t judge: They look at physical fitness when choosing crew for those submarines, too.

• • • •

There were no problems to speak of until we got her into the office, and even then we were distracted by the early flurry of activity. An in-depth special with a bevy of design blogs showing off the new Oval and discussing her selections from the National Gallery. A sit-down with the most sentimental evening news anchor talking about how young she was when she lost her mom, and her own struggles with raising three children at the same time as managing so many heads of cattle. “Heads of State, now,” the anchor joked. Madame President laughed, that same unpretentious chuckle that made our knees weak outside the Stop-n-Chop café.

Still, we should’ve seen the signs—no one wants to talk about family planning right after dinner, while sipping a postprandial highball. Her target demographic was people with televisions; there were certain types of female she could be for them, but not every type. Maternal, yes, but only a mama bear when it came to protecting the country from outside threats of the sort we earmarked. Easier to pretend that she’d never had a period or bought a box of Tampax—that was one benefit of a post-menopausal candidate, even if it lost us points on sexual charisma. Better to let her appeal be a little bit confusing. A girl in a mink coat who smells like dad’s cigar. A show-jumper who doffs her cap at the end of the rodeo and lets her hair tumble down onto her shoulders while she sweats.

One day, in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, she made a joke about breastfeeding in the War Room. Afterwards, there was whispering in the hallways, interns giggling in pantyhose and bad suits. We snapped and told them to get back to work, and they did—but all the girls had a little extra pep in their step. Some unrecognizable jus as they imagined, even as a gag, something they’d never before thought possible. The boys looked nervous. We couldn’t blame them.

When we talked to the President about taking care with what she said around impressionable young staffers, she didn’t share our concerns. “Kids,” she snorted. Her mannish laugh relaxed us. The distinct impression she gave was of someone thinking something dirty, but not quite ready to say it out loud. Still, when we complimented her brooch she gave us a strange look—one we’d never seen before. It didn’t get any better when we said it must be hell to spend so much time in heels. “Hmm,” she said. Then she told us she wanted to go on Crossfire.

She stretched her concept so slowly that, at first, we didn’t even notice. The morning of the White House Christmas Party she walked into a briefing without any makeup, and snapped at a page who told her she looked tired. “Have to show up as a clean slate before they make me camera-ready,” she said. “Boy, are they going to layer it on. Damned if I’m going to wash my face twice just to give you the illusion I’m well-rested.” Little things added up, and we brushed them off, as we would the dandruff on her shoulder. Lovingly. Sometimes with scotch tape, or one of those lint rollers they sell in the impulse aisle at Target, though she smacked our hands away. At a rally we’d been careful to position as “church-going” instead of specifically “pro-life,” she made everyone cry with her story about a hometown girl getting pregnant too young and still graduating from high school on time. But then, at the last minute, she turned thoughtful. “I remember,” she said, “how that girl came up and told me she felt like her body didn’t belong to her anymore. She thought life was sacred, of course, but she asked me, isn’t my life a little sacred, too? And I said, Oh honey.” The room was quiet. Then the President smiled, to tentative applause.

It wasn’t so much the things she did: pummeling Congress for weeks until they introduced a bill to enforce the testing of rape kits; visiting with dignitaries in flats instead of the shoes that slimmed her ankles; taking meetings while her husband was out of town, so he couldn’t offer a veneer of approval for those—not us!—who thought he should. No. It was the fact that she wouldn’t listen to us when we offered gentle corrections. “The American people don’t want—” we began. And she said, “Hogwash. My name’s the one they checked off in the voting box.” Later that week, she gave a national radio address with no lipstick. Yes, it was radio, but we were all in the room, and a photographer was present. On our request, he shot the whole event without film.

Okay, we thought. Okay. We can fix this. We pep-talked our reflections, slapped ourselves on the cheek to stimulate creative thinking without that jittery after-effect you get from too much coffee. We did a little bit of cocaine. At about four a.m., one of us lay back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling, making one of those fingerboxes people use when they want to indicate they’re looking through a camera. Directorial as all hell. What if, he said, we had her, but it wasn’t her?

We all laughed. The pot had really loosened us up, and only made a few of us too sleepy. The caverns of our minds were open, the walls throbbing and glistening with portent. Potential. I mean, the directorial one continued, we have the tech, right? For some reason this was a really funny sentence and we all started giggling again, and couldn’t put a lid on it for at least fifteen minutes, at which point the room grew silent as the gravity of the idea settled over our shoulders.

We did have the tech. We were pretty sure.

• • • •

For weeks, we watched her. Then for weeks after that. We made notes. How often did she insist on driving herself places? (Never. The Secret Service wouldn’t allow it.) How much did she travel home? (Enough.) Which of her habits were unassailable, basically invisible? Unfortunately, she didn’t smoke cigarettes outside the Residence or go for runs around the Capitol Mall. But she had burgers flown in from her favorite diner in Oklahoma every week, and she enjoyed walking in the Rose Garden to clear her head after complicated briefings. Most promising of all, she drank a neat bourbon every evening—and how well did we know it. During the campaign, we carried a bottle and a set of beveled glasses so she could drink with important donors and party leaders, not to mention a few regular folks we deemed camera-ready. Now, the liquor was decanted into crystal, and she had a habit of playing with the bottle stopper, rolling it around on her palm.

Some nights we sat with her, and, if invited, poured ourselves a small glass, too. Up close she had her own kind of beauty. We had trained ourselves to see it, but that didn’t make it any less real. There was something about the way she tilted her head while she tilted her glass, bourbon gathering in one edge and turning a wedge of light to amber. Hair falling over one shoulder. On camera we’d hidden her wrinkles, but up close they distinguished her the way a fingerprint might. She had a scar by the corner of her mouth, from a near miss with an uncontrolled steer. “What the hell are you looking at,” she’d ask if she caught us staring. “I’m the leader of the free world.” As if she didn’t want us to look. As if she thought we didn’t have that right.

• • • •

We grew more determined in our efforts. Roboticists are a dime a dozen, and we weren’t looking to create an AI. No more unpredictable intelligences: that was our motto for the year. The real issue was slipping something into her drink that would stop the heart without giving her a chance to raise the alarm. Timing would be critical. We had to get her out of the Oval and into the limo we had standing by. We had to reach mission control before rigor mortis set in; we had to have a team of surgeons ready with scalpels, and with the living frame. It’s no easy thing to slip off a skin, not at all like undressing. A shoe kicked crosswise, a garment falling to the floor. This was a thousand pinpricks, a lifting of the whole. Smooth cuts at the scalp, hidden underneath the hair the same way we’d disguise a facelift. This was theft.

Would it hurt? we wanted to ask the doctors. Would some part of her still feel the knife? She would be dead, but sometimes you hear stories about people hovering just above their bodies, not yet dissolved into the beyond. Or surgical patients who seem to be under, who feel every cut, every shift of their organs. They used to tie bells to corpses for days at a time, just to make sure they didn’t bury you alive. Of course, you may wonder why we cared, but the answer is simple: We picked her, you see. She was a person, in spite of everything, and she was unique. She wasn’t expendable, she just needed tweaking. Plus, we worried that somehow the robot would feel it, too, and blame us. We were done with the blame.

An assassination would’ve been easier, of course. Institute a national period of mourning, whole shebang. The VP is just some guy. Automatic transmission, almost too easy to drive. But there’s a certain curve to this woman’s cheekbone, a way she waves off questions from the press that would make you forswear your own mother. Put a bullet right between her eyes. That’s the level of commitment we’re talking about here. You have an idea, you have to see it through to the end. And we did. We did. We watched the blood go down the drain. It’s not something we like to talk about, but—the last crook of her finger. The last flip of her hair. The last breath. We were there, and no one can take that away.

For a few days we told reporters she was under the weather with a mild strain of Asian flu. Enough to account for any lags in speech when she returned, strange sagginess in the skin under her eyes. But soon enough we were up and running again. You’d be surprised how efficient the new system is. Much less glitchy. There are safewords to turn her off or deflect her, if needed: Once, early on, we had to send her into a faint, and had the Press Secretary say she’d come down with the vapors. Just a little joke. Some of us thought it was going too far, but don’t we deserve a stress reliever now and then? Shouldn’t she be willing to give us that much?

• • • •

She grew up on acreage, you see, riding an Appaloosa gelding across hillsides, ducking tree branches, whipping her braid back from in front her face in the wind. She studied psychology at the University of Oklahoma, with a minor in agriculture and a special interest in Nineteenth-Century French Literature that you better believe we scrambled to hide during the election cycle. She was blessed with good health, such clear skin that even now it connects with each electrical node and under the right light practically glows. She had horse sense. A terrifically sly mind, if not a suspicious one. Not suspicious enough. But still, she was the big boss. Head of every department you can think of, thanks to those who worked tirelessly on her behalf, choosing her from among all the female options in the country and blessing her as the least objectionable, the very least objectionable of all.

And what do we have? What did we ever want in return? Just the right to look at her with pride and say, I made this. Just the right, when we ask it, to touch her face and move the jaw into a slightly more becoming angle—or more pugnacious, as needs be. The right to arrange her hair and critique the color of her blouse, to hold convocations on her spring style and whether it looked well under the light of the afternoon sun. Ask her to reconsider her opinions, to apologize when the moment arises, since we have feelings, too. Troubles enough to call our own. We’ve given ourselves the task of helping America understand the reality of the female, even live with it—even love it. And she is our laboratory. Difficult, but worth the effort: her body, alive to our every suggestion. Her body steel, her body complicit.

Her body reborn.

©2016 by Adrienne Celt. Originally published in ZYZZYVA. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Adrienne Celt is the author of two novels: The Daughters, which won the 2015 PEN Southwest Book Award for fiction and was shortlisted for the 2016 Crawford Award, and Invitation to a Bonfire, which will be published by Bloomsbury in June 2018. Her work has appeared in the 2016 O. Henry Prize Stories, Strange Horizons, The Kenyon Review, Esquire, Zyzzyva, Ecotone, and many other places, and her collection of comics, Apocalypse How? An Existential Bestiary came out with DIAGRAM/New Michigan Press in 2016. She lives in Tucson, and publishes a webcomic (most) every Wednesday at loveamongthelampreys.com. Find her online at adriennecelt.com, or, against her better judgement, on Twitter.

The Real You™

Molly Tanzer | 3620 words

We were getting coffee, which we used to do all the time, when Tierney told me she was thinking of having it done.

“Really?” I asked, half-laughing—I didn’t think she was serious. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Tierney looked annoyed. “Do I need a reason? Why did you get your tattoo?”

I’d hurt her feelings. I hadn’t meant to. As I tried to think of what to say I followed the line of her eyes to a woman who’d just walked in and was ordering a latte. Her face was merely a suggestion, like a Cycladic head or a more abstract Brâncuși, featureless save for hints of her former browline and the bridge of her nose, the dip of her philtrum and pout of her lower lip.

It used to be they’d give me a bit of a start—people who’d had the injections. Not any more, obviously. I mean, even if Refractin never becomes as commonplace as a boob job or a tummy tuck, I think in other ways it’s pretty much the same. Expensive, but not outrageously so, and we’ve all agreed to agree that the procedure isn’t necessarily about bowing to internalized patriarchal beauty standards. It’s radical empowerment. Self-care, like a four thousand-dollar bikini wax.

I felt Tierney’s eyes return to me.

“I guess it just doesn’t really seem like you,” was what I said, but it was the wrong thing to say.

Did you think it was the weirdest thing in the world, the first time you saw it? In person, I mean, not on a magazine cover. I guess that’s a not a fair question for you; anyway, I sure did. I still remember not feeling certain if I was disgusted or enticed by the way the procedure smooths out the face, removing every detail to create a featureless organic mask. You know they grow it, right? Yeah, they totally do, like Vantablack. It’s pretty weird. They take a sample of your skin and create a unique batch based off of that. The injections contain some chameleon genes along with everything else; these days, it even tans and fades along with your neck and hands if you go out in the sun.

Anyway, Tierney got defensive. “Doesn’t seem like me?” she said. “How would you know?”

She was just a hair too loud for a crowded, indoor space. I was worried people would stare at us so I sat back, lowering my own voice in the hopes she’d do the same.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “you’ve never mentioned it before, that’s all I meant. If you want to, go for it. Do you need someone to drive you home, afterward? I could—”

“I don’t need someone to drive me home,” she said sharply, as if I were an idiot for suggesting it. “I don’t even know if I’ll do it. I was just saying I was thinking about it.”

Tierney checked her phone. “I gotta go,” she muttered. “Catch you later.” And then she was gone, leaving her half-drunk latte on the table.

I sipped on my mocha for a few minutes longer, surreptitiously looking at the woman who’d sparked our disastrous conversation. She was reading one of those square local newspapers as she sipped from a ceramic mug. Honestly I’m still fascinated when people who’ve had Refractin eat or drink—the way it looks like a mouthful of coffee or a bite of cake simply . . . disappears. Down the invisible hatch.

As I watched her, a bit of cream or foam stuck to the pentimento of her upper lip, and then it was gone. Her surgeon had done a better job than most; her tongue was completely invisible against her skin. In the low light of the shop, I hadn’t even detected a shadow of motion.

It wasn’t just the content of my conversation with Tierney that had felt weird to me—it was the timing of it, too. Her mentioning Refractin, I mean. Maybe she’d brought it up because of the woman in the shop, but also I’d been having an affair with Tierney’s fiancé Jaxon, and the last time we’d seen each other we’d checked out some porn together—porn featuring girls who’d had Refractin injections. So, I was worried that—

Oh, of course there’s porn! Loads of it. It’s not all mannequin fetish stuff, either. You can find just about anything you’re into, it’s just that the actors and actresses don’t have, well, we’re not supposed to say don’t have faces anymore, right? They don’t possess conventional facial characteristics. Anyway, when someone sticks their finger or whatever in someone’s mouth it disappears just like food or drink. Uncanny . . . but also hot.

Actually, it’s the porn that made Refractin seem more normal to me. When the procedure debuted I wasn’t one of those people wringing my hands over whether it was “wrong,” or would give businesspeople or professional poker players an unfair advantage in the workplace or whatever. I resented the slogan they chose for their TV ads, Let Them See The Real You™, because fake-empowerment marketing is inherently annoying, and it’s also just really uncomfortable, not being able to read someone’s expression. But then, like everyone else, I learned to ignore the ads. And not only that, I realized how much more there is to reading someone than seeing their face. There’s posture, personal style, mannerisms . . . tone of voice, too.

I left the coffee shop wondering if Jaxon and I hadn’t been careful enough about deleting his browser history, but I calmed down when I remembered that Tierney couldn’t know I’d been watching the porn with him. Unless he told her, of course, but then we’d all have bigger problems than our smut preferences. No, worst-case scenario, she’d just been feeling insecure.

Hm? Oh. I don’t know. Jaxon and I just sort of . . . happened.

Well, that’s not true. Nothing ever just happens. I guess I mean to say that I didn’t set out to cheat on Darien . . . but when the opportunity arose, I took it. What can I say? I’m only human, and at that time I was a human who was annoyed with her boyfriend for a lot of reasons, some of which were more legitimate than others.

The real issue was that we were both of us unsatisfied with the other, but not so unsatisfied that we were doing anything about it. No, we were in the phase where we were committing subtle acts of sabotage, each playing our various cards—but cards, while thin, stack up over time.

Then came the night when the four of us were supposed to go out, but Darien bailed on me, and Tierney on Jaxon—they were going through a similar rocky patch—and Jaxon and I agreed there was no reason we had to stay home. I’d had a hard week. I mean, every week teaching high school art history is a hard week. Can you blame me for wanting to spend some social time with adults? But one drink became a second, and then . . .

We said at first it was in the service of saving our relationships; we said it would just be occasional stress relief, like a steam valve for our lives. It made sense; justifications always do! But quickly we became enamored of one another, because that’s what happens.

It’s just so easy to idealize the person with whom you’re having an affair; so easy to take the ways in which they’re different from your current lover as evidence of them being superior. Maybe they go down on you without being asked, or are always on time, or have a flair for the romantic, all of which seems heroic. What you don’t realize is that they are terrible with money, or can’t take a criticism without offering one of their own. Still, sometimes a cage of a different shape can feel like freedom.

Anyway, after Tierney left I tried to tell myself it was coincidence—her mentioning Refractin, I mean. I reasoned that I wouldn’t have felt so paranoid if she’d mentioned getting her breasts reduced or chopping off her hair—it never would have occurred to me to think back on whether the porn Jaxon and I watched had featured chicks with small tits and pixie cuts. But the Refractin thing . . . it just felt different.

It bothered me so much that I mentioned it to Darien that night, as we sat on the couch side by side but still separate as we watched television. I mean to say I mentioned the procedure. Not everything else.

“What do you think of Refractin?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, what do you think of Refractin?”

Darien conveyed what I considered to be a disproportional amount of annoyance in the way he paused the episode of Black Mirror that we were re-watching. “What?”

“The surgery where they inject that stuff into your face and—”

“I know what it is.” We had finished eating, and he shifted his plate from beside him on the couch to the coffee table in order to squirm around and look at me. I’d put my plate in the sink; I always put my dishes up when I was done instead of leaving them around, congealing, presumably for someone else to pick up and clean. The apartment we shared was open-plan; you could see the TV from the kitchen, so it wasn’t a big deal to just do it, at least in my opinion. “I guess I like it.”

“You do?”

“Sure, why not? It’s weird, but it’s not grotesque or anything.”

I know I’d watched that porn with Jaxon—eagerly—but even so, I felt myself get a little annoyed about Darien’s reply, as I imagine women once did if their partners confessed to liking those really big boob jobs that were popular way back when.

“Who said anything about it being grotesque?” I fired back.

“This was a trap,” he said, eyeballs tracking back to the remote. “No right answer.”

“It’s not about a right or a wrong answer.”

“Like hell,” he said, and unpaused the television.

I won’t get into the fight that ensued; suffice it to say it got ugly quickly. My simmering resentment boiled over, he lashed out in turn, and as always happens with these things, more details were shared about who was more unsatisfied in bed or whose dietary quirks were the more annoying or whose social graces were the most deficient than one would think necessary for two people who were presumably done with one another.

Which we were. Two days later he moved out; two weeks later Jaxon ended things with Tierney and ended up sleeping on my couch while he found his own place.

At least . . . that’s what we told our mutual acquaintance, so as not to seem like the worst people in the world. Of course he wasn’t really sleeping on the couch, and for a month or so we had a glorious time with one another.

I say “or so” because by the end of said month I was already exhausted by him. I’d always thought Tierney was too hard on Jaxon, which was one of my other justifications for the affair. Sure, Jax was a germophobe and a spendthrift, but surely he didn’t need to be berated for that. But that was before I noticed that the kitchen and bathroom floors were always wet after he moved in—“towels are disease vectors,” he’d said, even though I changed them regularly—and then one morning when I was trying to make waffles for us and he was gone for forty-five minutes after I asked him to run out for eggs. “What happened?” I’d asked. “Oh, I went to the store across town,” was his answer. When I asked why, he’d looked at me like I was the one who was nuts while declaring, “The store close to your house charges three cents more per egg, which is highway robbery, quite frankly.”

No thanks.

I ended up alone, which is what I deserved. And what I told myself I wanted.

“I’m done with romance,” I declared to my friend Siouxsie one night, when we were strolling around the First Friday Art Walk. Acting the part helped a lot, as did hanging out with other single people. “Living alone is the best.”

“I agree, but I’m also still sort of amazed you guys split,” she said. “You and Darien, I mean. You always seemed so . . . simpatico.”

Siouxsie hadn’t meant to poke my heart, she wasn’t like that, but I felt the jab just the same. “Well, in some ways we were,” I admitted. “But you have no idea what it was really like, living with him,” I added hastily.

“No one ever does,” she said.

Later that night I went into a bit of a spin over Darien. I had kept myself angry and resentful and thus relatively free of regret by mentally replaying all of his worst traits in the movie theatre of my mind. But that night, all I could think about was what I had loved about him. What I still did love about him, in spite of everything.

I scrolled through his social media, sighing over every clever remark and side-eyeing every unfamiliar woman he interacted with until I started wondering if I was cyberstalking him. That’s when I made myself shut down the app . . . but not before tapping on his current profile picture. Retracing the familiar lines of his face with my eyes instead of my fingers made my heart beat a little faster. After that, I had to put my phone down in order to resist calling him to ask how he was feeling in the wake of things; if he was at all dismayed by the quick end to what we’d had and the ensuing silence between us. Time is a lathe, it’s true, but it doesn’t soften life’s hard edges equally.

I could have just asked, but I was too afraid—and what I feared most wasn’t his scorn, but his silence. I couldn’t handle more ghosting, not after a surprising amount of our mutual friends had sided with Tierney. I’d thought, incorrectly, that we were all adults who didn’t have to “take sides,” but there it was; I was unclean, a pariah. No one seemed to care how I was feeling in the wake of it all, even though, at least as far as I could tell from social media (before she ditched me across all her platforms), Tierney had emerged from the ashes of her engagement like a phoenix. She’d switched skin care regimens, joined a climbing studio, found a new climbing boyfriend—“the works”—whereas I was the one staying in, drinking wine with my cat on Friday nights, and not getting laid because everyone who swiped up on my hookup app seemed like a creeper.

Though at first it had hurt my feelings, in the end I was actually grateful she’d friend-dumped me so completely. It made things easier . . . that is, until I saw her downtown, eating ice cream with Annalise and Priya. I approached only because I saw she was wearing that one sweater of mine that she’d loved so much; I’d given it to her when I’d gone on a closet-cleaning kick the previous spring, when Jaxon and I had merely been flirty at parties. That she had retained it, and still wore it, gave me hope that perhaps we could patch things up.

I called her name; she turned around, and that’s when I saw she’d gone through with it—Refractin, I mean. Her face was an unreadable mask, but just the same I could tell she was unhappy to see me.

“Hey,” I said. “Nice sweater.”

She stepped away from Annalise and Priya, who both looked completely mortified.

“Excuse me?” she said, in the cold way one might speak to a stranger, her words emanating from the blank canvas of what had been her face.

“The sweater,” I said lamely, and then lost my nerve. Ironically, I couldn’t face her.

“I’m sorry. I think you must have mistaken me for someone else.” And with that, she turned away.

I crumpled. Had a total meltdown in public—I started shaking, and my face got so hot I was amazed my tears didn’t evaporate into steam. I knew I had no right to cry in front of her, not when I’d been the one to betray her, but she’d dismissed me so utterly I felt like no one, nothing. Like the ghost of someone who’d never been born. It was humiliating, to be brought so low in front of friends—well, former friends—and strangers. I literally staggered back from their little triad, my eyes red, my nose running, my lip wobbling like a spoiled toddler’s. There was no hiding what I was feeling, so I ran for it.

That’s when I decided to have it done—Refractin, I mean. I never wanted anyone to see me like that ever again. While I’m sure in that moment the slump of my shoulders, the trembling in my legs, my fluttering, nervous hands would have given me away to onlookers regardless, there’s still something so personal, so radically intimate about the way a person’s face contorts when they completely lose their shit. No two people collapse the same way.

The next day I called up a local cosmetic surgeon who had good reviews and booked a consultation. They said I was a good candidate so I lied my way through the psychological evaluation and said all the right things during the mandatory seminar on “Unexpected Ways Refractin Can Change Your Life.” Unsurprisingly, everyone else there was a wreck, too. You don’t have to agree with me; I know I’m right. When I called the office for a referral, the receptionist didn’t even have to search for your name and website—she just gave it to me from memory.

As you probably know, the recovery time for Refractin is surprisingly swift. Less than a month and I was healed up and living my new life, the one where everyone allegedly could see the “real me.” Except, of course, my new life was nearly identical to my old life, save that the creepers who swiped up on my hookup app were mostly fetishists. That was fine by me; kinky types are honest, most of the time, and anyway I was so grateful to be getting laid again that I didn’t care if it was transactional affection.

I could also hide in plain sight from everyone from my past, but that was both good and bad. At the seminar, they’d told me I might feel isolated or invisible afterward . . . well, good. That was what I wanted. But as time passed, I wasn’t sure if I liked it. The city seems big—I mean, it is big—but in a lot of ways it’s a small town, as my random encounter with Tierney had shown. After a few of Tierney’s crew had done double-takes upon seeing me and then pretended not to recognize me I got a new haircut, dyed it lavender, and started wearing clothes that were just different enough from my former style to conceal myself entirely. If I was going to be invisible, I wanted it to be on my terms.

That’s what made it so awful when I saw him—Darien, I mean—one sunny afternoon as I took a walk through a park we’d used to frequent when we were a couple. He was alone, and unlike me or Tierney, he looked exactly the same.

He looked wonderful, actually. I broke out in a sweat even though it was cool out; I was unprepared for this, but I calmed down when I realized he wouldn’t be able to tell who I was; or rather, tell that I was . . . me.

Except he did.

“Hey you,” he said, as if we were friends; as if we’d never been lovers who had hurt one another. He sounded genuinely pleased to see me. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine.” His kindness meant so much to me and I felt a fresh surge of affection for him. After that one night I’d tried to keep away from his social media and been largely successful at that . . . but now, here, in his presence, I wanted to confess to him that I’d been stupid, how much I regretted how I’d treated him, how I’d ruined everything and I knew it, how many times I’d brought up old pictures of us on my phone just so I could feel my mouth moving as I said I love you while looking into his eyes one more time.

Instead, I asked, “And you? How have you been?”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “I like the,” he waved his hand over his own face to indicate he was talking about mine. “Looks cool.”

“Thank you,” I said, struggling to sound like I was just making conversation; like none of this was weird or awkward or upsetting, given our breakup fight had been over this very topic. “I’m amazed you recognized me, actually. Most people don’t.”

“Oh, I’d know you anywhere,” he said cheerfully, and then he walked off. He didn’t turn around to look back at me, not once, and for the first time since the procedure I was truly grateful that no one could see my expression.

©2018 by Molly Tanzer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Molly Tanzer is the author of the novels Creatures of Will and Temper and Creatures of Want and Ruin, as well as Vermilion, The Pleasure Merchant, and the British Fantasy and Wonderland Book Award-nominated collection-cum-mosaic novel A Pretty Mouth. Her short fiction has appeared in Nightmare Magazine, The Lovecraft eZine, and Transcendent: The Year’s Best Transgender and Genderqueer Speculative Fiction, as well as many other locations. Her editorial projects include co-editing Swords v Cthulhu (with Jesse Bullington) and Mixed Up! (with Nick Mamatas). She lives in Boulder, CO. Learn more at mollytanzer.com.

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Jack Skillingstead | 6260 words

NASA died two hundred and three nautical miles above the planet Mars. It died when Daniel Chen, the last surviving crew member of Pilgrim 2, ran out of breathable atmosphere. At that point, Chen pulled himself close to the nearest camera lens. Even though NASA was not sharing the feed, hackers inevitably populated it across the internet. Millions witnessed Chen’s death. He was a beloved figure, a brilliant scientist as well as a twenty-first-century Will Rogers dispensing wisdom and humor on the talk show and lecture circuit, in books and web TV specials.

Chen’s face contorted in gasping agony, veins standing out on his forehead, eyes popping, red with burst blood vessels. He spoke three words on his dying breath: A stupid waste, after which he rolled away from the lens. Five dead astronauts drifted in fisheye perspective. It was the latest in a string of catastrophic failures.

A stupid waste.

Millions heard Chen, but his words were aimed at one person: his sister. Nevertheless, a stupid waste became a popular catchphrase, often heard in Congress and the Senate chamber. Most notably it was invoked by the senior senator from Ohio when he exhorted his colleagues to defund the ninety-year-old space agency, declaring it nothing more than a fiscal black hole into which a substantial portion of the nation’s treasure (at that point less than one quarter of one percent of the budget) was annually dumped without any reasonable expectation of a return on the investment. In short, NASA itself had become a stupid waste.

The Agency continued to operate, if only on the margins of relevancy: paid consultants to private industry, managing historical archives. Even data retrieval for existing satellites and robotic missions was contracted out. For America, except in the private sector, manned space flight was as dead as the crew of Pilgrim 2.

• • • •

Karie.

Getting there was the best part of the Nova Branson Orbital Resort. That’s what Karie Chen thought. The orbital provided one-percenters with breathtaking views and nude zero-G “tumble bays,” among other attractions. Everyone loved it, even the ninety-nine percent of the population who would never visit the thing. Maybe they enjoyed the idea of movie stars nude free-falling against the real stars.

Karie rode a Nova Branson shuttle launched from a facility in the middle of Ohio farm country. The senior Senator deemed the commercial space port a great boon to the state economy and an invaluable asset to the ever expanding space tourism industry: in short, the exact dead opposite of a stupid waste. It was all of that, Karie supposed, but for her it was mostly a great ride. From inside the launch facility, she couldn’t see the giant advertising displays that placarded the perimeter fence. Nike, Walmart, Time Warner Direct Holo Vision, Amazon’s Everything Experience—whoever had the money. Rocket launches still drew the Earth-bound. They paid for bleacher seats and bought cheap souvenir trinkets mass-produced in China—the last country on Earth with an active manned space program not driven by commercial interests.

Three million pounds of thrust lifted Karie and half a dozen millionaires into a cornflower blue sky. The roar scattered grazing cows in surrounding fields. Three minutes in, the boosters kicked them past seventeen thousand miles per hour, crushing Karie into her seat, flattening her eyeballs—the price of paradise, according to Nova Branson’s literature. Karie’s once-shattered and badly healed knee throbbed in perfect agony. It didn’t matter. Lips skinned back in a fierce grin, she inhabited the pure joy of vertical acceleration. It had been too long.

• • • •

After hard dock, everyone unstrapped. Released from gravity, movers and shakers became floaters and drifters. Karie was a stranger among them. Aside from cordial greetings back at the launch facility and a couple of don’t-you-look-familiar glances, the other passengers had mostly ignored her—the expected tribalism of the rich. The chip on Karie’s shoulder turned it into classism—that’s what Danny would have said. But then, Danny had gotten along with everyone.

Last to leave the shuttle, she pulled herself through the tunnel into Nova Branson’s visitor processing bay. A resort agent in a pale green jumpsuit greeted her with a winning smile. “Welcome to Nova Branson Orbital.”

“Thanks.”

The agent accepted Karie’s pass card and performed the required retinal identity verification. She’d already gotten the hell verified out of her before lift-off.

“You’re all checked in,” the agent said.

“What a relief.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind. Look, I thought somebody was going to meet me.”

“Would you like to talk to customer service?”

“Naw. I think I’ll have a look around.”

Karie pushed off—and almost butted heads with a man gliding recklessly in by the same passage. “Hey—” The man caught her, which changed both of their trajectories. Karie banged her knee on the bulkhead, yelped, bit her lip hard enough to break the skin. A tiny crimson drop drifted by her face.

“Sorry about that,” the man said. “I’m Jonah Brennerman. Alistair’s my father. Are you all right?”

Jonah offered his hand and Karie shook it. He was about forty years old, ten years her junior. He had one of those man-boy faces.

“I’m fine. Can I have my hand back?”

“Of course. Father’s waiting. I’ll take you there. Afterwards, meet me in the rotation lounge. The spin maintains a one-third Earth gravity simulation. Called Forward View. Ask anybody how to find it. You’ll love Nova Branson, at least that’s what Dad is hoping.”

Jonah pushed into the passage. She followed him to what he called the conference room.

“Word of advice? Let Dad do the talking.”

“Sure.”

“He likes to be in charge, is all I’m saying. If you want this to happen as much as I do, you need to be ready to compromise.”

“Got it.”

Jonah smiled. “Good luck. See you at Forward View. I can’t wait to get this thing started.”

• • • •

Hand straps festooned the padded walls. The northern hemisphere of Earth appeared in a circular view port.

“Hello?” Karie said.

A holographic projector flickered on. A man, aged sixty, appeared. Athletically fit, virile streaks of gray. In reality, the head of Nova Branson Corporation was pushing ninety and had been out of view for decades. Karie checked her temper. A little seeped out anyway.

“Mr. Brennerman, you insisted on a face-to-face meeting.”

“And here we are.”

“Actually, here I am.”

“Alas, my physical limitations preclude me from space travel. But I wanted you to enjoy my orbital firsthand, encourage a change in perspective.

“I’ve been in space before.”

“Perspective in the sense of attitude, Ms. Chen.”

Karie tried to make her smile look natural. She was here for something only a man like Alistair Brennerman could afford to give. “Of course I’m grateful. Getting into space isn’t easy these days—not without a funded mission.”

The projection wobbled. For a moment Brennerman’s voice fell out of sync with his lips. “Tell me why, exactly, you want to go to Mars.”

“To fix what my brother helped break.”

“A morbid contest of sibling rivalry?”

“It has nothing to do with sibling rivalry. The Pilgrim 1 habitat is still on the surface, waiting for someone to unpack it. The crew of Pilgrim 2 is dead, but that shouldn’t invalidate the mission goal: a self-sustaining beachhead on Mars. Mr. Brennerman, America is squandering its potential by playing around in Earth orbit. Until the Chinese last year, no one had even stepped foot on the Moon since 1972—eighty years, for God’s sake.”

“Nova Branson is not America.”

“It is, actually. Along with every other global corporation with roots in the United States. You run everything. I’m just asking you to invest in the pioneering spirit that used to define us. You can push the frontier.” She was talking too much. Worse, she sounded like a used-car salesman. Karie’s pitch lacked the sincerity she genuinely felt.

She tried again: “Listen. After the Pilgrim disaster and congressional defunding, NASA mothballed Pilgrim 3 and 4. But they are viable spacecraft. You could get one at a fire-sale price and cut expenses further by reducing the crew.”

“Are you quite sure you’d be up to the rigors, Ms. Chen, in light of your injury and, excuse me, your age?”

“I’m perfectly fit for the mission.”

“Of course. And Jonah insists on you. I think he’s star-struck by your celebrity. Hero of the Phoenix debacle.”

“Jonah? I don’t understand.”

The holo wobbled out of sync again. “You are not in the least bit impressed by my resort, are you?”

Karie sighed. “It’s an impressive technological achievement.”

“But?”

“But it doesn’t accomplish anything.” Okay, Karie thought, stop talking. “Earth orbit used to be the frontier. You don’t even do any science here. We have to keep pushing outward.”

“Yes, as I’ve often heard you say. I think you must wake each morning with the words already on your lips. Have you ever, for a moment even, considered you might be mistaken? Because you’re wrong about the frontier. This is the greatest business frontier in history.”

“Not my field.”

“Can you conceive of any circumstance under which you might modify your obvious disdain for Nova Branson and the profitable future of orbital recreation?”

“I’m not disdainful. I’m impatient.” Karie had drifted too close to Brennerman’s holo. Her shoulder interrupted the projection, fracturing organized light. She looped her wrist into a hand strap, pulled back, and the holo resumed its integrity.

“For a round-trip ticket to Mars,” Brennerman said, “will you be capable of recanting your impatience?”

“Recanting how?”

“Renounce your current and often-stated opinion about orbitals. Lend your unqualified endorsement of orbital recreation, Nova Branson in particular. Participate in a public campaign which will include interviews, public forums, ghost-written books, and so on.”

Karie stared.

“I thought not,” the holo said.

“Mr. Brennerman—”

“My son wishes to go to Mars. He wishes to go to Mars with the hero of the Phoenix. He admires you. Which suggests a lack of admiration for his own inheritance, since you and I are very much at odds. So this is my price for a trip to Mars. You vigorously and publicly embrace what I’ve accomplished, and intend to go on accomplishing, with Nova Branson. Do so and you may orbit the Red Planet as a tribute to your brother. That’s how you will put it. A tribute to your brother. And that will be the end of it. If the Chinese want Mars, let them have it.”

Karie was quiet, then said, “You know what it is, Mr. Brennerman?”

“Eh?”

“This kind of wasteful development of Earth orbit. It’s like the prairie towns that sprang up after the frontier moved west. Those towns were mostly saloons and bordellos, places to get drunk and get laid while pretending you were in the midst of something wild. The difference between then and now is the wealth of the customers.”

“Nova Branson has been in business a very long time, Ms. Chen. My grandfather started it, my father developed it, and I have been a loyal steward of the legacy. We did not succeed by indulging romantic notions such as your ‘pushing the frontier’ mantra.”

“So you brought me up here just to slap me back down.”

The Brennerman projection smiled. “I’ll tell Jonah you weren’t interested.”

• • • •

She worked the lecture circuit. People still paid to hear her talk about Phoenix. She had been in command. Mission: to rendezvous with a robotic vehicle that had successfully captured a small asteroid and established itself in lunar orbit. One of Phoenix’s fuel cells ruptured. The explosion crippled the ship and killed Karie’s pilot. Despite her shattered knee, Karie babied the spacecraft back to Earth, saving herself and the three scientists on board. Her knee never healed properly. NASA declared her unfit to fly, even as they praised her heroism. That was ten years ago. Pilgrim 2 should have been Karie’s mission. Instead they selected Danny, the public relations star with no flying experience, two fully functioning knees, and a popular following in the millions. Privately, Danny told Karie he was glad she was grounded. Watching her almost die on Phoenix had been unbearable. When he saw the hurt look on her face, he immediately took it back. “Hey, I didn’t mean it that way.” But it stung. Sibling rivalry, Alistair had suggested. But it wasn’t that simple.

Now, during a Q & A session at Wyoming State University, an old guy in the second row stood up and the usher handed him the microphone. Karie pegged him right away. Leather jacket, cap with “US NAVY Ret.” blazoned across it: aging space buff. Mostly that’s what she got these days.

“I have a comment and a question,” he said. “The comment is: We need NASA back. The real NASA!” Applause rippled through an audience who wouldn’t be there if they weren’t already in the same nostalgia camp. They always wanted to hear about Karie’s heroic save of the stranded Phoenix scientists. She complied, then switched to her message about the future of exploration. At that point she usually took a few jabs at Nova Branson, among others. Tonight she skipped the jabs. Karie had been thinking a lot since her return from the orbital resort.

“And the question is,” the old space buff continued, “how do we get it back?”

More applause. Karie’s anger surged—more at herself than anyone else. The applause wound down. She raised the microphone. “NASA isn’t coming back.” Microphone feedback whined through the hall. Karie winced, held the mic farther from her lips. “The agency that took us to the moon is dead. You should get over the idea that NASA can—or needs to—happen again. Because it won’t.” She paused and let them grumble. “And we don’t need it to come back. The future of manned space flight exists right now, the technology, the infrastructure. The privatization of space flight is here. What our entrepreneurs lack is a vision without dollar signs.”

She talked a while longer, departing from her usual lecture notes, but she had lost some of the audience. People began standing, gathering their coats. Later, when she stepped out into the evening air, Jonah Brennerman was waiting for her.

“Mr. Brennerman.”

“Can we talk?”

“Go ahead.”

“I meant over dinner.”

“I’m headed straight to the airport to catch the red-eye.”

“Then let me drive you. You stood me up, you know.” He smiled.

“On the orbital? After talking to your father, there didn’t seem to be any point.”

“Let me try to convince you otherwise. Please.”

She hesitated then said, “The university provided a driver. I’ll have to tell her.”

• • • •

In the backseat of the limo, Jonah offered her a drink.

“No, thanks.”

“My father was pushing you.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“You understand, it’s about me. You represent a threat.”

“A threat! He’s Alistair Brennerman. I can barely fill a lecture hall.”

“That’s not the point. I’m in your camp. I believe we need to extend the frontier. Dad interprets that as almost traitorous. We’ve locked horns on this since I was a kid. Now he’s old and he wants to groom me to take over Nova Branson. The corporation means everything to him. Instead, I want to fly to Mars with you.”

“I’m a bad influence.”

Jonah laughed. “In his eyes, absolutely.”

“So why are you here?”

“This is the good part. Dad’s changed his mind, or I changed it for him, or I’m not even sure what.” Frowning, Jonah scratched his head. “To be honest, I’m a little baffled myself.”

“Wait a minute. He’s agreed to fund the mission, his tribute mission?”

“Yes, provided I can persuade you to his terms.”

“Let me save you the trouble of trying: You can’t.”

“Hear me out. He’s agreed to back off on the more extreme elements. No ghostwritten paeans to orbital resorts, no public lectures recanting your position. We’re talking about a one-time public statement of support, a willingness to play nice with the press, and passive participation in a program of advertising revenue. And, Karie, he’s agreed to a landing, not just a bullshit tribute orbit.”

Karie held back her elation. A Mars landing! A real chance at exploration. “I can live with those terms. But why is he doing this? I don’t get it.”

“I pledged my loyalty to the status quo, promised when I took over I would adhere absolutely to Dad’s vision, without, as he put it, romantic deviations. Look, our relationship has always been rocky.” His face made an ugly grimace, an unintended glimpse of just how hard “rocky” had been. “Now time’s running out. He wants us to reconcile, he wants his legacy carried forward. We’re compromising around Mars.”

“He didn’t strike me as the compromising type.”

“Maybe in this case we’re both wrong about him.”

“Maybe. Are you really willing to come back and spend the rest of your life pampering rich tourists?”

“Of course not.”

Karie gave him a skeptical look. “But Alistair believes you?”

“He believed me after I signed a legal document binding me to the terms.” Jonah poured himself a scotch. “Of course, there’s no such thing as a contract that can’t be broken.”

The driver spoke. “Coming into the airport now, sir.”

“There’s something off about all this,” Karie said.

“The point is,” Jonah said, “do you want to go to Mars or not?”

• • • •

Seventeen months later, at a prelaunch photo op, Karie turned to Jonah and said, “We look like NASCAR drivers.”

“You look great,” Jonah said.

Joining them were James Krueger and Treva Hilgar, NASA-trained astronauts and early defectors to Nova Branson. They wanted to fly. Krueger was six feet of lean muscle mass and smiling optimism. Hilgar was compact, emotionally self-contained, and fiercely competent. She wore a small gold cross around her neck. Karie was happy to have them along. All their flight suits were emblazoned with advertising patches. Especially annoying was the wearable GIF touting Nova Branson Orbital Resort, winking and shifting like Vegas casino signage.

“Put on your smile,” Krueger said. “We’re going to Mars.”

Later, riding the elevator up the gantry, Karie said, “The last few months, it’s like launching a circus, not an interplanetary mission.”

“Apollo wasn’t about exploration, either.”

“I know. It was about beating the Russians.”

“But exploration was a byproduct of that competition. And this mission isn’t about the NASCAR suits or your endorsement. So cheer up.”

Jonah laughed. “I can’t believe you two are even debating about something that’s already a done deal. Enjoy yourselves, for God’s sake.”

Treva Hilgar, as always, kept her thoughts to herself and watched the booster slip by.

• • • •

Mars rolled out beneath them. After seven months in space, it was time. Karie opened the hatch between the main body of Pilgrim 3 and the landing module attached to its belly. “Go ahead, Jonah,” she said.

Smiling, bearded, excited, Jonah moved toward the hatch. They had really done it. In a few hours, they would be examining the Pilgrim 1 habitat, reporting on its readiness for future missions to occupy. If there ever were any future missions. Karie wished what they were doing felt more like a beginning and less like a swan song—or, worse, a tribute.

She followed Jonah into the LM. Krueger had already begun the power-up procedures. Treva would remain in orbit.

“Here we go, huh?” Jonah said.

“Here we go.”

They were all grinning like kids.

• • • •

Karie separated the LM from the main body of Pilgrim 3. This is where trouble had struck her brother’s mission. Pilgrim 2’s separation maneuver had failed, trapping the entire crew in a landing module that couldn’t land. Pilgrim 3’s separation was flawless. A short burn took them to the edge of the atmosphere. Their speed increased exponentially. Seven miles up, the supersonic chute deployed. Karie and Jim Krueger watched their instruments. A mile from touchdown, the chute separated and the retro rockets fired. Then it began to go wrong. The retros fired too hot, sapping fuel reserves. Still thousands of feet above the surface, the LM doggedly hovered.

“Damn it,” Karie said. “Switch me to full manual.”

“I’m on it.”

Seconds ticked by, then minutes.

“Jim?”

“Problem. Hold on.”

Karie watched the fuel gauges drop. They were already depleted below what was necessary to achieve orbit and rendezvous. Being marooned a given, soon they wouldn’t be able to land at all.

“Jim, come on.”

“There. The damn thing wouldn’t let go.”

Karie took them down, radically angling the descent, going for a hard landing while she could still control it. But it was too late. Sixty feet above the surface the fuel gauges flashed red, the engines quit, and they dropped like a stone.

“Brace!”

The desert plain came up like a wall and swatted them.

• • • •

Karie dragged Jonah from the wreckage. Her knee collapsed and she fell over, cursing. The landing module loomed against the butterscotch sky, a mangle of abstract junk. Krueger’s severed arm hung from a gash in the bulkhead. There was no need to pull him out. Adrenaline, fear, and pain routed Karie’s rational response. Gasping, she fumbled at her helmet. Then made herself stop. The readouts on her sleeve display indicated all was in order. She bore down, forcing calm, taking deep, slow breaths, then put her attention on Jonah. Behind his faceplate, his eyes fluttered. Blood crept from his hairline.

“Jonah.”

He groaned.

She shook him. “Jonah, can you stand?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to stand.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be sorry, just stand up. If I can do it, you can do it.”

They both stood up, leaning on each other. A wave of dizziness swelled through Karie. She swayed, almost fainted, but held on. The Pilgrim 1 habitat was a mile away. Packed inside was everything they needed to survive—if they could reach it.

• • • •

Except for the lighter gravity, Karie would never have made it. By the time they came upon the habitat, her knee was screaming and her body was drenched in sweat. Jonah, who had recovered quickly, all but carried her the last hundred yards. The habitat was roughly the size of a shipping container. They passed through the airlock, initiated life support. Karie stripped off her helmet and gloves. She powered up the communications rig and sent a message to Pilgrim 3. Treva did not reply. She tried again. Still no response.

“What’s wrong with that thing?” Jonah said.

“I don’t know.”

“Does Treva even know we crashed?”

“She tracked our descent. She knows.”

Karie slipped the headphones on and tried again.

“Anything?”

“Quiet.”

Karie thought she heard something—a voice, so faint and submerged in static she couldn’t be sure it was real. She adjusted the radio, fine tuning, but the voice was gone.

“What?” Jonah said.

“I thought I heard a voice.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure it was a voice.”

“Let me.” Jonah took the headphones and began broadcasting, listening intently for a reply, broadcasting again. Then his expression changed. He closed his eyes, appearing almost in pain as he listened. After a while, looking disappointed, he removed the headphones. “I thought I heard something.”

For the next hour they traded off on the radio, trying to contact both Treva in orbit and Mission Operations back on Earth, sometimes with the headphones on, sometimes allowing the wash of hopeless static to pour out of the speakers.

“We both heard the voice,” Jonah said.

“We heard something.” Karie’s mind was moving off the radio. There was so much to do.

• • • •

Day three.

A dust storm came howling out of the desert. They huddled inside the habitat. Dust and grit hissed against the shell. Karie had been working on a protective shield for the life support unit’s loader. Attached to the outside of Pilgrim 2, the loader shipped Martian soil into a chamber, where it was heated and the evaporated water captured. LS apparatus then divided the water into hydrogen and oxygen, adding nitrogen directly from the atmosphere. It produced drinking water and breathable air and was designed to support five people. But the equipment proved balky, in need of constant attention. And then the dust storm drove them back inside before she could fix the shielding in place. What would be left after the storm? Feeling her optimism fray, Karie said, “I’m beginning to think people like your father are right.”

Jonah scooped fruit paste out of a ration cup and sucked the spoon clean. “Dad’s always right about everything. Just ask him.”

“Phoenix was a disaster—my pilot killed, the mission aborted. Pilgrim 2 up there right now with five dead, including my brother. And now Jim Krueger. You want to talk about a stupid waste, there it is.”

“Karie.”

“You know, when Danny said that stupid waste thing, he was talking directly to me. He was saying, I know you’re going to try to find a way to come out here. Don’t do it.”

“Well, you did it anyway.”

• • • •

They stood by the loader. Dust and grit had wind-blasted through the mechanism, tearing rubber seals, clogging the armatures and servos.

“We’re going to have to break it down, clean everything, replace the seals, and put it together again. Otherwise we can manually ship the soil, which is more labor than we want.” Karie’s knee throbbed. She ignored it. In the direction of the crashed landing module, something moved. She paused, holding her wrench. A dust devil tracked across the desert, like a fleeing ghost.

• • • •

Day nine.

By now Treva had left orbit, headed back to Earth. Karie had tried everything she could think of to make the radio work, to no avail. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it. Possibly their outgoing messages were being heard. There was simply no way to tell. She turned to the hydroponics and other matters demanding attention. Jonah, meanwhile, spent too much time monitoring the useless radio. One morning he shouted, “There’s somebody! I heard somebody.”

Karie, already suited up, was about to enter the airlock. Dust accumulated on the solar panel array if they didn’t keep it wiped off. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes. I was broadcasting to Earth, and then there was a voice. I couldn’t hear what it said, but it was real. I heard it. This time I’m positive.”

Karie switched to speaker. She cleared her throat and spoke into the microphone, “Pilgrim 1 habitat, this is Pilgrim 1 habitat. Please respond.”

Jonah leaned in eagerly.

“Relax,” Karie said. They both knew it would be at least twenty-eight minutes before they received a reply. She was about to stand up when, faintly, a voice spoke through the static. Karie tweaked the noise reduction filter. The voice became slightly clearer. Pilgrim 1 Habitat, this is Pilgrim 1 habitat. Please respond. . .

An echo.

Like calling into the mouth of a deep, black, empty cave. Jonah looked stricken. After that, he rarely wasted time with the radio.

• • • •

Day seventy.

Karie lay on her thin mattress. Many nights she and Jonah shared a bunk, but Karie had been sleeping poorly for weeks and wanted her own space tonight. An amber panel near the airlock provided minimal illumination. Tired as she was, she couldn’t let go, her mind constantly worrying at the myriad of tasks. The hydroponics required constant attention. In nightmares, Karie awakened to discover the plants withered and dead. In reality, the radishes, lettuce, and green onions were thriving under carefully controlled conditions. Still, they were a long way from a bioregenerative life support system.

From where he lay in his own bunk, Jonah said: “We’re never leaving this planet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My father’s not sending a rescue ship.”

“And you know this how?”

“Somebody reprogrammed the LM computer. Reprogrammed it to burn all our fuel, making sure we’d crash. If Jim hadn’t managed to override it and if you hadn’t been at the controls, we would have all died.”

“I didn’t exactly execute a soft landing.”

“We survived, didn’t we?”

“Two of us did.”

“Dad knew I would find a way to wiggle out of the agreement I signed. I thought it was odd when he suddenly conceded the point and agreed to a landing. I should have trusted my instincts, but I wanted this so bad.”

“What are you saying?”

“Dad saw an opportunity, and he seized it. Think of it. Yet another fatal disaster confirms that manned spaceflight pushing the frontier is too dangerous and pointless. A stupid waste, right?”

“Jonah, it’s his corporation. He didn’t have to kill you to keep you from taking control after his death.”

“That’s exactly what he had to do.” Jonah’s voice contained bitterness like acid. “My ascension was out of his hands. Grandfather liked me. It was in his will that the family line not be broken. Barring death or some kind of certifiable mental derangement, I was next to take charge of Nova Branson. Period. Dad had to sign off on that before the reins of power passed into his hands.”

“You’re being a little paranoid.”

“He’s capable of anything when it comes to getting his way.” Jonah shook his head. “I’m a fool. Look. The retros fail, then the communications fail. That’s pretty coincidental, isn’t it? You’ve said yourself there’s nothing wrong with the radio. That means it has to be the satellite relays. Guess who NASA contracted with to upgrade and facilitate satellite data retrieval? Nova Branson has held those contracts for over a decade. They can facilitate data retrieval from Mars satellites—or subvert it, or filter out what they don’t want seen. We’re dead, Karie, as far as anyone back home knows. Ship crashed, no communication from possible survivors. Done. It’s not paranoia. It’s brilliant. Cold-blooded but brilliant. You see it now, don’t you?”

“Jonah, I stopped counting on rescue as soon as we established the impossibility of communication.”

Jonah was quiet for a minute. “In the old days, didn’t the rovers use high-gain microwave transmissions for direct-to-Earth communication?”

“Find a rover and cannibalize it? Forget it.”

“Why?”

“Because we have no idea where any of them are, and we’re not equipped to go searching.”

“Damn it.”

“There’s another possibility. The landing module. The locator beacon, it transmits directly on high frequency.”

“Can we adapt that antenna?”

“No. But we can move the beacon.”

“How does that help?”

“All it does now is identify the crash site. Well, crash sites don’t move.”

“But survivors can move the beacon! We have to go get this thing tomorrow.”

“Jonah, I’m exhausted. We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay? Two miles on my knee is going to be a stretch, even if I’m rested.”

“I’ll go alone.”

“Don’t. It’s too dangerous to separate. I really have to sleep now, okay? We can figure out a plan in the morning.”

Karie got up and found her way to the head. With the door shut, she turned on the light, opened the medicine kit, and took a couple of sleeping pills. God bless NASA for deciding the pilgrims might need artificially orchestrated rest.

• • • •

She woke up groggy, her head like something stuffed with wet cotton. Dust and grit hissed against the habitat’s shell. Karie checked her chronometer. It had been more than ten hours since she took the sleeping pills. Jesus. Dimly, she remembered Jonah shaking her, trying to wake her up. She had brushed him off, rolling onto her side. Now she reached for the lights. They came on in sections, flickering at first. Jonah was gone.

She checked the outside conditions. Wind speed was variable, between twenty and thirty knots, the direction changeable. She tried to raise Jonah on his helmet com but the storm shredded the signal. She needed line-of-sight. After a couple of hours, the dust storm began to subside. Jonah was running out of time. Karie loaded up with extra oxygen and headed out.

• • • •

She came to the wreckage of the LM. Her knee hurt but it was tolerable. The return hike would be worse. She had tried to raise Jonah repeatedly on the helmet com, but no luck.

She climbed into the LM. Krueger’s body lay frozen in place, attached at the ragged shoulder to a great dark sheen of frozen blood. His face stared at the twisted bulkhead, unmarred, fixed in a blank expression. Karie observed no inkling of the living man. Krueger’s body was like another piece of the inanimate wreckage.

A tool bag from the habitat sat near a partially removed floor panel. Jonah, going after the damn transponder. Karie picked up the pry bar and ratcheting wrench. The crash had twisted the deck out of alignment. She worked on it for a half hour, finally wrenching the panel aside. The transponder, the size of a shoebox, appeared intact. She detached it from its nest of cables and braces, stowed it in the tool bag, and started back.

The wind buffeted her. Dust churned all around. The bag was heavy. She shifted it from shoulder to shoulder. Her knee and back hurt. She stopped at the midway point and sat on the gritty hardpan, her head down. Jonah was out here. By now his oxygen was depleted and he had suffocated, another piece of human wreckage. Another catastrophic failure.

She got up and went on. By the time the habitat came into view, Karie could barely walk. How would she do this, how would she go on alone, day after day, week after week, year after year? The arid future lay before her. She staggered forward. Inside the airlock she closed the outer door, equalized the pressure, entered the habitat—and found Jonah preparing dinner.

“I was getting worried about you,” he said.

“Jonah.”

“What’s wrong—hey, is that the transponder?”

“What happened to you?”

“Dust storm caught me. I tried to make it back before it got bad, but it got bad too fast. Wound up digging in behind a hillock. After the storm backed off, I couldn’t figure out where I was for a while. Beyond stupid. My air was pretty low. When I finally got here, you were gone. At that point it seemed dumb to go out again, so I’ve been waiting. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m just glad you’re here. I’m so glad.”

• • • •

Day five hundred.

Karie woke before Jonah. She turned on a section of light panels, and Jonah’s face emerged out of the dark beside her. He had taken to trimming his beard, after first threatening to shave it off altogether. She was glad he hadn’t done that. She liked the beard, the way it transformed his man-boy features. In repose, Jonah looked like someone Karie might even love. She placed her hand on his bare shoulder and shook him gently.

“Jonah.”

His eyes opened. “Hey.”

“It’s time,” she said.

“All right.”

They suited up.

The dawn was so cold Karie could feel it even through the insulating coils of her suit. They hiked away from the habitat, Karie limping, and climbed to the top of the ridge. Their feet skidded in the loose scree. Karie had to hold on to Jonah’s arm until they reached the top.

“Okay,” he said, “where do we look?”

She pointed to the horizon, where the sky had turned the color of burnished steel. “There. About thirty degrees above the plain.”

They waited. After a while Karie had to sit down. He helped her and then joined her, and they leaned against each other. They had both lost weight, and they tired too easily, but almost two years in, they were still alive—and not merely surviving. The habitat was designed for expansion. They had deployed the diggers, which tunneled out from Pilgrim 1, allowing them to construct a long underground “greenhouse,” where they planted and nurtured a greater variety of vegetables and fruits. They still supplemented their diets with the supplies brought from Earth, but they were far less dependent than they had been in the beginning. The habitat was nearly a closed system, self-sustaining. Nearly. And if they had to get there, Karie was optimistic that they would. Jonah, an amateur geologist, was even doing some science. Pilgrim 1 was a viable foothold. Now they were looking at the dawn sky. When it happened, it was so brief they almost missed it: A brilliant flash described an arc—and then Pilgrim 2 was gone.

“Goodbye, Danny.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Karie? You’re my favorite Martian.”

She laughed. “So we’re Martians?”

“We both know my father isn’t sending a rescue ship.”

“It doesn’t have to be Alistair, you know.”

“Sure. Someday there’ll be a knock on the door.”

“What would happen if everyone thought you were dead and then you weren’t?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Nova Branson is still your birthright. You told me Alistair can’t disown you corporately, not according to the terms of your grandfather’s will. I believe it will be worth it to someone to come up here looking for you. You know, there’s gold in them Martian hills. Maybe that transponder trick worked.”

“Karie, I wouldn’t count on it. Hey, we’re doing all right, aren’t we? I mean as Martians.”

They helped each other back to their feet.

“We’re doing great,” Karie said. “Come on, let’s go home.”

©2015 by Jack Skillingstead. Originally published in Mission: Tomorrow, edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jack Skillingstead’s Harbinger was nominated for a Locus Award for best first novel. His second, Life on the Preservation, was a finalist for the Philip K. Dick Award. His first short story appeared in 2003 and was a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Award. Since then he has sold more than forty short stories which have appeared in Asimov’s, F&SF, Clarkesworld and many other magazines, original anthologies and Year’s Best volumes, and his writing has been translated internationally. His new novel, the SF-thriller The Chaos Function, will be released Houghton Mifflin Harcourt’s John Joseph Adams Books imprint in March 2019. He lives in Seattle, with his wife, writer Nancy Kress.

Kaleidoscope

Silvia Moreno-Garcia | 930 words

In this universe, the last time we talk is when I return the basketball I borrowed from you. We are seventeen. We’ve known each other for seven years. We’ve vivisected each other all through high school, intent on playing games of cruelties and making up, because it’s how wild animals play and we are nothing if not savages in denim and sneakers. We are always friends and always enemies, though on this day probably more friends than anything. You’d think we’d kiss this once, to seal a parting.

We never kiss. I wave goodbye and you move away.

You become an artist and I see photos of your work on the Internet.

You never send the postcard you promised.

• • • •

We fight the undead with machetes and rifles. You’re bitten when we’re hiding in an abandoned supermarket. David, who studied medicine in this universe instead of dropping out of school, amputates the hand.

I wipe the sweat off your forehead, but you are very weak and gangrene is setting in. I cut your throat because we can’t afford to shoot the rifle. We abandon your corpse to the zombies.

• • • •

In New Aztlan, you are a priest of Tlaloc, responsible for making the crops flourish. You place offerings of jade and shells before the shrine of the deity and offer sacrifices. When we happen to walk by each other, in the tlatoani’s palace, your eyes always look forward, dark, pretending to ignore me. Pretending, because when I look away I can feel your gaze.

We do not speak to each other.

• • • •

We dwell underground, in a great city that extends deep into the crust of the Earth, only rarely venturing up near the thick glass domes that allow us to glimpse a scorched, barren redness.

I scuttle up and down the tunnels, a courier bearing messages. You stand guard by a pair of double metal doors.

Things hide in the dark, in the tunnels, things that slide and leave black trails of slime. You open the doors each day, that I may descend, and one day I do not return.

• • • •

We are pupils in the same school. You are bored in class, drawing on the margins of your books.

In this universe, I am the one who goes away, to be married to a merchant, a trader of salt and spices. My dowry includes silks and gold. Your wedding gift to me is a drawing, which my sister intercepts and rips apart.

I never know what you drew.

• • • •

There are no antibiotics or vaccines. I contract polio and my legs are twisted, atrophied, hidden under my long skirts. I cannot chase after a basketball, so we don’t meet in the courtyard.

You do meet Gaby and she’s as pretty as she always is. So you love her—as you’ve done before, in other places—and marry her.

Again, David is a doctor and he tends after my deformed legs. One afternoon when I’m leaving his practice, you walk in.

You hold the door open, glance curiously at me, the corners of your mouth lifting into a smile, and I step out.

• • • •

In this universe, they organize an exhibit of your work and I make a point to attend. I hold the glossy catalogue between my sweaty hands and scan the room, glancing at your paintings.

There’s a drawing of David, a little sketch of pen and ink. There’s a great big canvas showing Gaby in full colour. There are buildings that resemble the buildings you’ve glimpsed in other places and faces that have drowned in strange oceans.

Everyone and everything, a kaleidoscope of lives one upon the other.

I look for my face, but I do not find it. Instead, I stumble upon a rough sketch of a woman showing shoulders and neck and hair and a hole where there ought to be a face.

I stare at this non-woman.

I turn and see you standing across the room, speaking to a small group of people and holding a drink between your hands. I stare and you snap your head in my direction.

I walk towards you, intent on asking why you never sent the postcard.

You said you’d write.

I charge forward and you’re still staring at me, like that time we duelled in a jungle of carnivorous flowers. I killed you, that time.

“Hi,” I say and the people around you stop their chattering, take half a step back.

“Have we met?” you ask.

The way your mouth curves reminds me of our youth. I wonder if you don’t recognize me or if you’re trying to play another one of our games, pretending not to know me so it’ll hurt.

It’s the second. I’m glad we killed you when the zombies attacked.

(Somewhere, in some other slice of a world, I’m probably killing you again).

“No,” I say, “I must be mistaken.”

Your face is just like the face of the Aztec priest, obsidian knife in hand. “I thought so,” you say.

I nod and walk out of the gallery. It’s raining outside.

In another universe, you rush out of the gallery with an umbrella and we walk together, heads down, in a cryptic silence that does not break until we reach the subway and we both ask a startled question at the same time.

In this universe, however, I simply pull up my hood and splash through the puddles. We never kiss, in this universe.

©2014 by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. Originally published in AE – The Canadian Science Fiction Review. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Silvia Moreno-Garcia is the critically-acclaimed author of Signal to Noise—winner of a Copper Cylinder Award, finalist of the British Fantasy, Locus, Sunburst and Aurora awards—and Certain Dark Things, selected as one of NPR’s best books of 2016. The Beautiful Ones, a novel of manners with a speculative element, is her third book. She won a World Fantasy Award for her work as an editor.

Super-Luminous Spiral

Cameron Van Sant | 3510 words

Even though your creative fiction professor fawns over Joyce, you don’t understand the copy of Ulysses you checked out from the library, so you hide behind it while you stare at your classmate whose skin flickers.

His blue and green skin is speckled in spirals of twinkling lights. When you stare long enough, you realize the spirals spin like galaxies. Part of your brain should tell you he is abnormal, but it does not.

He stands up and reads his assignment. He reads poetry. This is not a poetry class. You are not sure what the poem is about and you are not sure what his voice sounds like, but you now want to cry. You try to think of a literary great to compare him to that you studied in one of your literature survey classes. Wilde? Auden? Dickinson?

After class you approach him and gush, “Your poetics remind me of Dickinson.”

He smiles at you and says he thinks your work is brilliant. Your work is not brilliant. You have a B- in this class.

You ask the galaxy boy, “Which story are you thinking of?”

He tells you he loves the story about Sister Briar, the nun who plants flowers in the convent garden in the shapes of profanities. You have not read that story in class. You don’t think your professor will like it because there are no extended mythological metaphors. It does not strike you as strange that the galaxy boy knows about it.

• • • •

You want to impress him, so you take him to an eighteen-plus club. The bouncer slaps the green plastic bracelet on your wrist that marks you as under twenty-one. The bouncer does not look at the galaxy boy or check his ID. The bouncer does not give him the green bracelet or the orange one.

When the galaxy boy dances, his green and blue swirls course faster over his body. Women and men come to dance with him. They offer to buy him (and you) drinks. He accepts, and you sit on a bench with strangers who can’t take their eyes off him. He doesn’t take his eyes off you. As you drink the bitter whiskey cocktail, you focus on preventing your face from grimacing. You tell him the cocktail is good.

He asks you why the nun in your story writes “cunt” and “twat” with the flowers rather than other swear words. Unlike every other voice here, you have no problem hearing him over the pumping dance music. You say that you picked vaginal words because you’re heterosexual. You laugh and stop when he does not. He asks you why Sister Briar picked those words. You think, and you say it was her self-expression. He smiles at you, and you realize you’re not heterosexual. His eyes are gold.

• • • •

You have been accused of gayness ever since you decided to major in English. You joke that you chose the major to pick up chicks, but the truth is you wanted to write mystery novels. Then your professor sniffed at the idea of genre, so you decided to write literary fiction instead. The switch wasn’t all his pretentiousness—since your professor taught you to read slow and careful, Fitzgerald moves you in a way Connelly does not.

But Connelly excites you in a way Fitzgerald does not.

• • • •

Your saliva is thick with well whiskey and you stumble after the galaxy boy toward the school. The campus is dark and deserted. An industrial cylinder belches clouds into the sky and its rumbling fills the campus. It towers over the class halls and you never noticed it before. He climbs up the parking structure’s cement stairs. The only car on the roof is a sleek black sedan. He has the keys and you follow him inside.

When your hands are on his body, you realize his skin is not green and blue—it’s transparent. When you clutch handfuls of his hips, the green and blue galaxies are squeezed away from your grasp and burrow within his body. New stars bloom in their place. You expected his galaxies to be cold, but they’re almost painfully hot. He has lube and condoms in his car. There are two holes between his legs and he wants you to fuck the back one. You don’t, because as soon as you’re inside of him, you come. You apologize and he tells you he loves you. He holds you on the back seat. There are still stars in front of your eyes.

• • • •

The next day, you ditch both intro to economics and Depression Era lit. You print out your Sister Briar story in the campus library for fifteen cents a page and slouch in a corner behind a fern. A red pen clenched in your right hand scrawls across the printouts and by the time the library closes, the whole story is red. You take it to your dorm and re-type it while drinking cheap cafeteria coffee. You sleep two hours and when the library opens at seven you’re there, printing the story again and you retreat behind your fern with your pen. Before your fiction class starts, you’ve printed out the third draft in forty-eight hours. You feel like a real writer. You smile at Ulysses as you turn the pages you aren’t reading.

• • • •

After class, he takes your new draft and reads it on the bench outside the English department. He says the tension is higher and the imagery is beautiful. He loves the new ending where, after she’s caught, Sister Briar spells out “suck Satan’s cock” in the garden using lighter fluid and lights a fire that ultimately destroys the convent.

He says some other things, but you don’t hear him. You feel simultaneously wired and exhausted. You want to sleep, but you know you couldn’t if you tried.

After thinking that, you find yourself walking with him into your dorm. You haven’t given him your key and don’t question how he gets in. He breaks one of his teeth out of his mouth and melts it into a cup of microwave-heated water. When you drink it, it tastes metallic and sweet. You fall asleep and don’t wake for another two days. In your dreams, you fuck him in his car. His head sticks out the window, and he’s looking at the stars.

• • • •

Even though there are no mythological metaphors in your Sister Briar story, you turn it in to your professor. He gives you an A and comments that all that time reading Ulysses paid off. You think he’s making fun of you, but you’re somewhat flattered he noticed.

• • • •

You want that thrill of creation back. It’s clear to you—to use a mythological metaphor—that the galaxy boy is your muse. You buy him flowers—violets, which Sister Briar used to write the word “pussy”—and wait for him in the courtyard outside the English department. You haven’t even said the word “bisexual” to yourself, but you desperately want to date him openly.

He walks out of the hall talking to Lucia Olmeda, and they’re holding hands. Lucia sits in the front of the creative fiction class and is always raising her hand but doesn’t always have the right answer. Her work is fine on a technical level but rarely has any heart. She couldn’t write a character as dynamic as Sister Briar.

He doesn’t even glance at you as they walk by.

• • • •

You make a light rail trip out to Walmart specifically to buy a matchbook. When you return to your dorm room, you burn the violets in your roommate’s metal trash can. The smoke detectors and the sprinklers go off and you scramble to stuff you and your roommate’s laptops under your coat. The whole dormitory is evacuated and the fire department comes out. You say it was an accident and cry a little and somehow avoid eviction.

• • • •

In the library, you start typing a story about a kid whose parents are divorcing. It reads like you’re parading a pathetic diary excerpt as a short story intro even though it’s nothing like your life. You delete the draft and when you leave, you’re surprised to find it’s dark out.

You walk to his parking lot to see if he’s there. His black car is, and it’s rocking. You know you’re not going to like what you see, but you walk by anyway. He’s bent over, leaning out the passenger window, and Lucia is fucking him with a dildo. Her skin glows like it’s covered in stars.

• • • •

You ditch all of your classes except for creative fiction. Lucia has shaved her hair off and now she sits with him in the middle of the classroom—some kind of compromise, you suppose. You watch them behind Ulysses, and in its pages, you’ve carved a four-by-seven-inch block where you’re stashing a Connelly paperback.

Lucia doesn’t raise her hand until she volunteers to present her story. It’s about a scientist mourning her dead wife who decides to have her brain transplanted into a dolphin’s body and eventually forgets she was ever human. You begrudgingly admit her story is great, but believe the professor will say it’s too genre. He doesn’t, and lectures the class about why her story is better than many recently turned in.

You try to catch the galaxy boy’s eye, but he does not look at you.

• • • •

You ask your roommate if he wants to swap blowjobs and he is surprisingly receptive. When his dick is in your mouth, you realize you never made the galaxy boy come. You feel a wave of uselessly late embarrassment.

Afterward, you write a closed-room mystery at a fancy dinner party, but the characters are stilted and the plot twists make no sense. You stop the story mid-draft with, “They realized the gods did it and everyone went home.” Getting off didn’t help.

• • • •

Lucia is back in the front of the class, asking an increasing number of irrelevant questions. The galaxy boy is trading stares with Brandon Lipski, a trans guy who writes exclusively about his allegedly amazing older girlfriend.

You approach Lucia after class. “He dump you, too?”

Without looking at you, she says, “The only good stories I write now are about cheating.”

You haven’t tried that. “But you’re able to write? You’re finishing stories?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

When you go home, you write a story about a middle-aged man who hates his generic suburban life and cheats on his wife with a female business rival. You finish a draft at three in the morning and start a story about a married couple staying together for the kids and the husband cheats with his wife’s sister while doing coke. At nine at night, you finish your first draft and write a new story about a serial cheater in a sex addicts group who thinks he’s found the one (a woman in his group) and then cheats on her with an ex-wife. You are writing new content almost as fast as you can type. You don’t know how you’re able to do that, but you’re smiling for the first time since you bought the violets.

You think you’ve ditched all your classes until your roommate comes home drunk and you realize it’s Saturday. He paws at you. You tell him not now and start a new story.

• • • •

Lucia sends you a Facebook message on Sunday and asks you how many stories you’ve written. You tell her you’ve written five since Friday. She tells you she’s written twelve stories since he left her. You tell her none of your stories are as good as the one you wrote when you were with him. She says none of hers come close to her dolphin story. You joke about how long you’ll wait until Brandon writes cheating stories.

Lucia tells you she has an idea. In forty minutes, she emails you a call for submissions flyer that she made. It’s for an anthology titled “Ultimate Deception: Tales of Adultery.” She’ll email the flyer to all active English professors in California and request that their classes send submissions to promote inter-collegiate collaboration or whatever.

She wants a roll call sheet of the galaxy boy’s exes.

• • • •

On Monday, you’ve made Sister Briar the other woman in your latest cheating story. The story is mediocre compared to the original one, but you work on it anyway.

It occurs to you that you’re not sure when you last showered, but you figure if it was a problem, your roommate would have said something. Instead of getting meals from the cafeteria, which were paid as part of your tuition, you walk to the gas station across the street and buy chips.

You ignore all your emails except the ones from Lucia. She forwards you all of the responses she has so far. There are multiple questions about how many submissions are allowed, and Lucia is telling people to send everything they have.

Your fingers are covered in chip dust on Tuesday night when your roommate tells you to get out of the room because he’s going to have sex with his new girlfriend. You move to the hall and write out there.

Lucia updates the submission list. There are now 316 submissions from twenty-one different people.

Alone in the hall at night, you don’t think about the words flying from under your fingertips across the Word document. You think about the galaxy boy, bent over in his car beneath twenty-one random English undergraduates. You can hear your roommate and his girlfriend.

With no outlet, your computer dies, and you have no paper.

You consider typing in the notes app on your phone, but it’s at nineteen percent and you realize it will also soon die. You use it to google local cafés, but they’re all closed. You know the library is closed too, but you take your dead laptop and walk over anyway.

The sliding glass doors of course don’t budge for you. You walk around the back and try the emergency exits. They’re also locked, so you walk back to the front. Holding your laptop in both hands, you lightly rest it against the glass. Then you lift it, bring it down in a swing, and stop the momentum at the last second, again leaving it to rest against the glass. It’s too valuable—not because of its price but because of the stories it holds. Stories that might one day be good enough to show him. You set the laptop on the pavement, swing back your left fist and punch the glass. The glass is bulletproof and your hand breaks.

You call 911. It occurs to you that the hospital is open twenty-four hours and someone there would probably give you paper. This suddenly seems like a bright idea.

• • • •

The ambulance drives you to the hospital without sirens and the paramedics walk you to a nurse who walks you to an assigned room. Your vitals are examined and you ask for paper. You’re sent for x-rays and when you return you ask for paper. You’re hooked up to an IV of antibiotics and given a couple sheets of copy paper. You scribble your story with your right hand, your left hand ignored on the bed beside you.

A doctor arrives. She looks at your left hand; she talks about casts. You ask for more paper. You’re sent two floors down for more x-rays. When you return, a nurse draws your blood, and you don’t question it. Then they ask you to pee in a cup, and that gets your attention. They’re testing you for inebriation.

You get your paper, get back into bed, and keep writing.

Your left hand is cast up and they tell you they’re admitting you to the hospital. You don’t ask why. More tests are run—they take more blood and the doctor gives you a physical and they put weird nodes on your head to look at your brain and nodes on your chest to look at your heart. You email Lucia from your dying phone and ask her to bring you your chargers for your phone and your laptop.

Lucia arrives in the morning. You plug in your laptop and continue your story on it. You don’t type up your handwritten pages because that seems like a waste of time. You need to go forward—you need to write more. Lucia sits in your room and is writing on your half-used copy paper.

The doctor returns wearing a surgical mask. She introduces herself to Lucia, who absently greets her. The doctor sits down next to you, her graying hair in a tight bun.

“Can I get your attention for a minute?”

You glance up at her from your laptop.

“Your body appears to be in severe distress, more than what we’d expect for a broken hand.” She pulls a picture from a file and gestures to a graph. “Your heart rate is elevated and your body has a severe hormone imbalance. Many of the hormones we’re detecting are associated with stress and the fight-or-flight response, but simple stress does not explain everything. There are strange spikes of activity in specific parts of both your brain’s frontal and parietal lobes.”

“Okay,” you say. You want her to leave so you can go back to writing.

“The most alarming part is this.” She shows you an x-ray of a left hand. But instead of a faded white skeleton hand, the bones glow beyond the borders of natural anatomy, with black shadows obscuring part of them, like the x-ray is a sky full of crescent moons. She shows you a second x-ray, and it’s the same; the crescents positioned slightly differently. “We thought something was wrong with the first machine, but the second machine showed this as well. Your hand is reflecting x-rays in this bizarre way, and we have no idea what it means. Whatever it is, it’s not safe.”

She gives you a piece of lined paper. “I need you to write a narrative of everything you did in the last seven days so we can attempt to determine a cause.”

“Don’t bother,” Lucia says. It’s her front-of-the-class voice. “Whatever it is, the galaxy boy did it to him. I probably have it too. So does Brandon Lipski.” She whips out her phone, taps on it, and passes it to the doctor. “And so do these twenty-one people.”

“The galaxy boy?”

“He’s in our creative fiction class.”

“What’s his name?”

Neither you nor Lucia can answer.

• • • •

The next day, you, Lucia, Brandon, and twenty-one undergraduates are in tents in a field out in the middle of nowhere. You don’t know the address of your field, and you’re not allowed to know. They’ve taken your phones.

Four police SUVs are stationed in a distant perimeter around the tents. They’re waiting.

In the communal tent, everyone’s pens are scratching. Fictional people are being cheated on; affairs are discovered; lives are ruined. A hospital employee brings a ream of paper, but it’s not enough. They also brought sandwiches that are left untouched. A therapist is trying to get people to talk about their feelings, but no one cooperates.

You tell the undergraduates that you have no extra paper, but there’s a chip receipt in your pocket. You’re saving it for when you need it. You stole Lucia’s printouts of the anthology submissions and you’re tearing out a found word story.

Sometimes you ask questions to no one. “What did his voice sound like?” “What was his poetry about?” No one answers.

When night comes, the light hooked up to the generator is left on. No one sleeps. Everyone writes.

You happen to glance up from the printouts to see a subtle change in the light outside—a soft glow of constellations.

You get up and run out of the tent. He stands in the field—a blue and green aurora against and part of the night sky. He stands within the perimeter of the police vehicles and none of them stir. His gold eyes are looking at you.

You’re overwhelmed—you have so much to say; so much to ask. You have imagined this moment since the violets.

“I’ve written some new stuff,” you say.

He says he’s happy for you.

There’s noise coming from behind. You’ve been spotted. Lucia and Brandon and everyone see him and they’re running, and they’re all talking at once, and they’re all reaching out for him. You reach for him, too—you were here first.

He smiles at you. You touch him with your right hand, and he falls into glittery pieces that scorch you. You fling them away. Everyone scrambles for the pieces, and quickly drop them. You and Lucia and Brandon and twenty-one other undergraduates stand around the pile that was him. You can almost hear his laugh in the wind, but you’re not sure what it sounds like.

©2018 by Cameron Van Sant.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cameron Van Sant is a pansexual transgender writer of speculative fiction. His short stories can be found in Capricious Magazine and the Queerly Loving Volume Two anthology and he has written non-fiction for You&Me Magazine. He lives in Sacramento, California with his partner. You can find him on Twitter at @cameronvansant.

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

The Dream Curator

Alex Irvine | 4190 words

It is the business of the Dream Curator to choose, and at the moment he is doing so. On his left, an uninspiring rococo fantasia on a childhood humiliation; on his right, a fractured symbolist nightmare of mollusks and walls of televisions. Neither is permanent-gallery material, but both tempt him to reshuffle the rotating exhibit space near the front of the museum. He samples them again, and makes the correct decision. Too much beauty in a museum, he thinks to himself, is not necessarily a good thing. And the mollusks will look good in the newspapers.

Instructing his assistant to catalog the dream and prepare it for installation, the Dream Curator goes to the window and counts slowly backward from 181, using only prime numbers. He admires prime numbers for their resolute indivisibility, and this is his way of preparing for the ordeal of interacting with the Nine Benefactors, one of whom is on his way to the Dream Curator’s office at this moment. He looks with longing at the door behind his desk; temptation is strong. To fight it, he tells his secretary that he will meet the Benefactor out in the galleries, and he walks. In recent years, the Nine Benefactors have grown infatuated with the work of an architect devoted to the proposition that all buildings are bodies, and the newer galleries are curved, oblong, organic. The Dream Curator is indifferent to architecture but scrupulously disdainful of trends. With every addition and renovation, he shuffles different collections into different rooms. Circulating, he thinks wryly—and recalls a dream of William Harvey’s, squirreled away somewhere in the archives. Something about embryology and Charles I. Dreams of science, utopian visions, erotic apparitions, a specialized collection he calls False Families, in which the dreamer puts a stranger in the place of a family member. Another thematic collection, this one concentrating on lovers’ melancholy. Nightmares of every sort—the single most popular gallery, more popular even than the small and very exclusive exhibit of celebrity pornography—dreams of the insane, dreams of artists in which their canvases can be seen aborning. But the Dream Curator’s favorite wing—or perhaps he should say organ—is the Gallery of Writers. Here visitors find the great ideas lost in the wrenching moment between sleeping revelation and waking anguish. This, to the Dream Curator’s mind, is the prize of the museum’s holdings, and most emblematic of the traumatic daily rebirth into physical life. He has worked hard to expand this gallery. In this room, he sees the dream’s reach exceeding the mind’s grasp, and knows that his own quotidian shortcomings are reflected and magnified on a more elevated plane, and in this way validated. Here, the unwritten Canterbury Tale that broke Chaucer’s resolve, faint traces of which can be read in the exhausted supplication of the poet’s Retraction; the novel Virginia Woolf carried with her down into the River Ouse; the vision whose loss squeezed the trigger of Hemingway’s shotgun. And an alcove known as the Room of Shakespeare’s Sister, ablaze with the mordant and unfettered flights of women doomed to silence in the waking world.

In a kidney-shaped newer wing, the children’s exhibit. Dreams here are sacrificed, reshaped, polished, and elided to survive the depredations of the young and gently develop their oneiric sensitivity. Scuffed, pinched, scribbled on, damp with tears saliva grape jelly, these dreams are no longer fit for general exhibition, if they ever were. The Dream Curator tries to choose them carefully, so they will instruct and delight, but also so that their inevitable loss will not compromise the institution’s holdings. He has never stolen one of them. The Dream Curator believes in nurturing and protecting the young. What he does not believe in is catering to the bovine whim of the mass of visitors to the museum, which is why he is at this moment bickering with one of the Nine Benefactors, a misshapen hulk of idle wealth who in the Dream Curator’s imagined Body of the Museum plays a role akin to that of a gland that secretes a foul but indispensable fluid. The crux of the dispute is the Dream Curator’s exhibition choices, but experience has inured him to the complaint that a particular dream is pedestrian or transparent or boring. De gustibus, et cetera, and he is the one hired to make those decisions and take the complaints with good grace and the proper admixture of hauteur.

“Dreams of generals, statesmen,” the Gland is insisting as the Dream Curator flees from him through the children’s wing, scattering a group of ten-year-olds mauling a once-charming vision of Noah’s Ark. Somehow the briny smell of the dream clings to their clothes, and as he passes among them, the smell follows the Dream Curator into the Historical Wing. Forever after this, he will associate the Gland with the smell of Old Testament catastrophe. “Mathematicians, musicians.” Seeing that the Dream Curator is not listening, the Gland grips his upper arm with a hand smelling of the urine of Leviathan. “Dreams of Billie Holliday,” the Gland says through gritted teeth.

“Which were divine, for as long as they lasted.” The Dream Curator is losing his temper. Desire for the Blue Quiet is fraying his well-rehearsed professional bonhomie. “But you know as well as I that none of Holliday’s dreams can survive exhibition. It’s the same with De Quincey, or Poe, or Cobain. The drugs erode the substance of the dream, so all I have left is visitors expecting the collection to reflect the brochures that you distribute at your fund-raisers. And who handles their complaints? None of you nine.”

The Gland, in his fury, grows mottled and begins to hiss. “At the next board meeting, I will certainly address your feelings.”

“Please do,” the Dream Curator says, and leaves the Gland emitting his briny smell amid the dreams of philosophers and kings. A body, he thinks, with all the derision of which he is capable. Shouldn’t it be a mind? Ah, but he can already hear what the Nine Benefactors would say to that, and the supercilious tones of their voices. Do you, Curator, know the contours of a mind? In the game of derision, they outclass him effortlessly.

His flight continues, carrying him into the MAW, the Maladies and Afflictions Wing—known as “Ma” to some of the more flippant staffers due to the number of deformed manifestations of motherhood therein. This is a holdover from the Dream Curator’s predecessor, and one of his near-term ambitions is to purge this disturbing emphasis in favor of a more eclectic presentation. Surrounded by the tortured imaginings of paranoids and lunatics, the Dream Curator undergoes a moment of acute self-questioning. He is failing in the area of administrative politicking, and it is because of the Blue Quiet. Yes, he thinks. This is true. Only a fool would argue against this proposition.

And then his steps are echoing through the MAW as he turns toward his office, and behind it his refuge, the sequestered and surreptitious collection he calls the Blue Quiet.

• • • •

Fragment 22. Water fades to infinity below and behind her. Before her, an endless wall of ice. The water is warm, and she breathes. The ice undulates under her fingertips as she sinks. She arrests her progress and hangs suspended in the Blue Quiet, peeling back the layers of her mind in search of something she can call a thought. An orca rises from below, and she takes its fin the way she assents to the touch of a lover. With a twitch of its flukes, it takes her down and away.

• • • •

The Dream Curator calms his breathing. A loamy taste in his mouth alerts him that he has forgotten to eat, and he rises from his chair and makes his way to the cafeteria. The food’s only merit is that it can be metabolized. Around him, the museum is shutting its doors, purging itself of visitors. The staff avoid him. It is winter, dark already; with the taste of forgotten food in his mouth, he blunders back to his office, through the rear door and into his poor secondhand love.

• • • •

Fragment 7. The mirror magnifies all that she hates and despises about herself. Makeup helps a little. Someone is waiting for her; a thousand men are waiting for her. But one of them she wants, and alone with the mirror she fears that he will not recognize her, that he will pass her by. She looks, and looks, and loathes.

• • • •

In the dying light of winter, the Dream Curator aches. You, he thinks. I will find you. I will not pass you by. You you you. The sun has set on his rumination, and there is nothing to do but go home. He dreams of her, uselessly because he knows her only through the Blue Quiet, but he nurtures a sustaining illusion that perhaps she receives the message he tries so valiantly to transmit. This runs counter to prevailing oneirological theory, which scoffs at notions of dream transmission, but the Dream Curator is not interested in theory. His great and tenacious hope is that one day he will find one of her dreams, and find himself in it. He awakens heartsick and afraid, wanting a name, but what he has is fragments. He will piece them together if it is the last thing he does, and when he has, he will know her name. This is madness, he knows that, but because it springs from madness, the bond has the strength of betrothal.

He has also dreamed of being an insect, as he often does, and during his walk to the museum, his hands steal under his coat, absentmindedly feeling his flanks for spiracles.

• • • •

Fragment 2. She’s holding a bird in her hands. Maybe she’s a girl. The life between her palms fills her with knowledge of all that she is missing, and with a sigh she lifts her arms and watches it fly into the sun.

• • • •

There are twenty-seven fragments, numbered in the order of their acquisition. The Dream Curator is convinced that his revelation will come when the number of fragments in the Blue Quiet reaches twenty-nine. Partially this is because of his love for prime numbers, partially because in Fragment 9 the date October 29 is circled on a calendar. The mysticism inherent in this belief is of course inappropriate to a man in the Dream Curator’s position, and he keeps it to himself. But privately he thinks that he has been rational for quite long enough, thank you very much, and if he had to misappropriate museum funds to collect the first few pieces of the Blue Quiet, well, the Nine Benefactors spend as much breakfasting each week.

Fragment 1 appeared a year ago, in a miscellaneous lot tagged onto the end of an auction that the Dream Curator attended only at the Gland’s insistence. Until the moment when he bid on that lot, the Dream Curator had been the very model of an arts administrator; after, he was transformed. He lied on the manifest, he miscataloged the nine pieces in the lot, he squirreled Fragment 1 away in the rooms behind his office—rooms that had once served as his predecessor’s living quarters—and he surrendered himself to a plainly doomed and quixotic quest for something, or someone, who very probably did not exist. For Fragment 1, like a few of the others that came later, was not her dream but a dream of her, and like a great many other eroticized dreams, it might well have been an ideation of the dreamer’s matrix of desires. Marvelous, the Dream Curator thought at the time. I must have her. The thought shocked him because he had no experience with passion, but he quickly gained it, and went on to discover the unique and terrifying pleasure of giving himself over to obsession. The seed was planted with Fragment 1, but it was Fragment 2 that collapsed the Dream Curator’s understanding of his desire for her, and each acquisition since has rebuilt it along more and more fantastic lines.

The bird, he thinks now. He has never held a bird in his hands. Except he has, because she has.

• • • •

Fragment 14. Lightning from a clear blue sky, that’s this first moment when she catches his eye from across the room. Time bunches up and elongates again; they’re laughing at a joke she’s made about inchworms, his face drawing candlelight. He doesn’t close his eyes.

• • • •

The Dream Curator opens his, and without enthusiasm begins his day. He has been reading entomology because of his dreams, and the word holometabolous will not leave his head. Inchworms are holometabolous. He bathes, and dresses, and directs his thoughts elsewhere, but the press of loneliness is upon him, and questions arise that do not bear close examination.

How many mornings can you wake up in a silent house?

How many mornings can you shave in front of a mirror that has never reflected any face but your own?

• • • •

Fragment 9. Photographs taped to the wall. Looking at them makes her happy. A warm rush of anticipation flows through her when she sees the date circled on the calendar.

• • • •

The Dream Curator has traveled quite some distance to await an auction in this airless room under the desiccated glow of fluorescent tubes through dusty and flyspecked ceiling panels. The catalog is poorly assembled, and after a moment’s flipping through it, he sets it on the seat next to his. Almost immediately, one of his colleagues—the Dream Curator considers anyone at this auction a colleague, and he despises them equally—requests the seat. She is posed and cordial, attractive in an antiseptic way that the Dream Curator is surprised to find himself responding to. One of those women—and men as well, he supposes, thinking of particular fragments of the Blue Quiet with an inward blush—who is perfectly unremarkable in every individual respect but whose complete presence captivates. He has thought in almost these exact terms about dreams before, or at least the ones he prefers. Not for the first time he wonders how many of his colleagues have come to the profession because they are composed according to the principles of the collections they oversee. We are all dreams, he thinks, and we are all bored to the point of suicide by the idea that we are all dreams. When the auctioneer appears, his colleague is expressing her opinion on the latest developments in authentication standards, and the Dream Curator is wishing he had an exoskeleton.

Three hours later, he is packing for the trip home, having acquired a series of startling vampire nightmares and a childhood picnic reminiscence, suffused with light and ocean air but seen at a distance of forty or more years, as a result of which the ants on the picnic table periodically quote revelatory passages from the dreamer’s dissertation. The vampires are a crass attempt to boost flagging attendance, and also the Dream Curator is already taking a curdled joy in the response they will provoke from the Nine Benefactors—curdled because despite the assurances of a broker who has never before misled him, the piece he came to see was not of the Blue Quiet, not at all.

• • • •

Fragment 17. Wanting him consumes her. Her body grows transparent, her bones are peeling like birch bark. He isn’t coming back. She will never find all the little pieces of herself.

• • • •

At the board meeting, the Nine Benefactors are predictably disapproving of the vampires. This is not the sort of thing we would wish to represent this institution, is the refrain. The Dream Curator’s response, by now a mantra, is: Make up your minds. Do you want popular dreams, or do you want the kind of dreams calibrated to win the approbation of critics and the largesse of donors? The overlap between the two categories is very small. His response is dismissed with the smugness of the idle rich who know that their opinions are more important than the truth. One of them—cadaverous, female, newly seated on the board—opines that an infamous orgiastic fantasia on tensor calculus known as The Debauch of Indices should be acquired for the science wing; the Dream Curator mentally dubs her the Vein as the meeting degenerates into its standard circular firing squad of competing agendas. The Dream Curator leaves without asking. They do not notice.

• • • •

Fragment 12. The dogs howl even though the train has passed. Something is wrong with the stars, they swirl counterclockwise and drain away into her heart.

• • • •

Snow is falling outside his window as the Dream Curator composes a fund-raising letter and begins the scheduling of the next series of lectures. The office is cold, and he works quickly, feeling good at least for the moment. Only so much of a day can be spent indulging despondent tendencies. The schedule falls into place, and he is informed that a prominent professor of oneirological semiosis will indeed be available on the desired date. What peacock-feathering, the Dream Curator thinks, but he also knows that the professor’s visit will bring an injection of cachet, which in turn will bring in donations, which in turn will allow him to quietly siphon off bits here and there for the Blue Quiet. If he has to genuflect before the altar of academic specialty, it’s a small price to pay.

• • • •

Fragment 3. She lies on her side, somnolent but aware of him moving in the house. His smell is in her hair. Clank of something dropped in the sink, and she sits up and realizes she’s dreamed it all, that the only breath in the house is her own.

• • • •

With the smell of cinnamon in his nose, the Dream Curator wakes up. He can prepare for his work. In the light of a solitary dawn, that is what he can do. He walks through the cold city morning to the museum. His shoes fit poorly and he is finding it difficult to keep his balance. At midday, the Vein suggests they have lunch together. There’s a sense among the Nine that you’re getting to close to your work, she tells him. They’re at a bistro a block from the museum, sitting in chairs that are too high around a table that is too small eating sandwiches that are too expensive.

The Dream Curator realizes that this is true. He is too close to the work, or at any rate so close to part of it that he’s much too far away from the rest. He thanks the Vein for taking him into her confidence. She brushes away his gratitude and leaves him with a kindly spoken warning: They don’t want real oversight, you know. With real oversight comes real responsibility. They want to complain, and you need to learn how to manage their complaints so that you are more useful to them as a vessel for their discontent and their paternalism than you would be as a scapegoat. Vessels stay on the shelf, and are reused; scapegoats are driven into the desert.

For the rest of the day, the Dream Curator curls and evades, nods with minimal politeness at staff and takes the day’s correspondence from his secretary without a glance. Neither a vessel nor a scapegoat, at least not yet, he remains a holometabolous insect, the museum his cocoon. His office smells of leather and the musk of pieces lost through aggressive handling or too much attention. Conservation efforts are shoddy, for too long he has delegated them to his assistant, who is unqualified. This must be addressed. There are auctions to attend, donations to examine, meetings to schedule. He locks the door and retreats into the Blue Quiet.

• • • •

Fragment 5. You can’t stay, can you?—and no, they part, each into the gleaming dawn, winter light the color of ending. Even music doesn’t help. On the street everything slows and moves in concert, an adagio of heartbreak and bruised hope.

• • • •

He forces himself weeping through the door and leans on his desk. Once, when he was new at the museum, the Dream Curator acquired a self-congratulatory allegory of a religious zealot who in the dream owned property along a river just above a hidden waterfall. Seeing in this situation a perfect instantiation of a common proverb, the zealot erected a large sign bearing the word PRIDE on the riverbank, and reasoned that every time a canoeist or fisherman did not interpret the message, he had rid the world of a sinner. The dream of the sign’s construction was—is, since it is now on loan to a university collection of religious materials—unremarkable, even banal, save for the peculiar subconscious texture of disgust that underlay every stroke of the hammer. At the time, the Dream Curator was unacquainted with this feeling, and was fascinated with the way disgust recomplicates itself and turns inward. Now he is too familiar with the sensation. He is sick of himself, has had all of his thoughts a thousand times and no longer believes himself capable of new ones—except in those first exalted moments of a new addition to the Blue Quiet. Then he is alive, then he is not just curator but curate. The rest is existence, sheer animal existence tolerable only as long as he doesn’t let himself think about it.

She is out there, he thinks.

And makes the mistake of confiding in his assistant one morning, after a night of uneasy sleep that should have been punctuated by unsettling dreams but was not. The conversation begins unexpectedly, with a pun dropped during the course of planning a new series of seminars on conservation and archiving. I am not just curator but curate, he jokes, not realizing the truth of it until the words have left his mouth. For a kaleidoscopic moment, he is on the edge of revealing the existence of the Blue Quiet, for if he is curate, then it is the sacred relic beating at the heart of the profane public display that is the rest of the museum’s holdings. Yes, he thinks. Yes—but manages not to tell her everything. In the flush of pleasure that follows this unexpected private discovery, however, the Dream Curator unburdens himself, feels an uncharacteristic and liberating impulse to speak of his heterodox views on dream transmission and oneiric exchange, even uses the words destiny and love and presses her for some ratification of his emotional state. Already during the conversation he regrets it, but he could have done nothing else, and afterward he feels better—purged, uplifted, perhaps sanctified—by his candor.

She resigns the next morning, under the impression that he has made an advance, and the Dream Curator finds himself the target of disapproving glances. Conversations terminate when he rounds corners in the museum’s offices. He considers defending himself, and realizes that at some crossroads on his long search for the Blue Quiet, he has left behind the ideal of reputation and career that once propelled him out of bed each morning. The Nine Benefactors let it be known that his status will be discussed at their next meeting—but in the interim, he finds himself in the vexed position of having to interview successors. He puts it off by answering his correspondence, knowing that soon these same requests for loans, queries about bequests, reminders of financial difficulties will be addressed to someone else. He has ruined himself.

And then a small package from an address he knows well. The Dream Curator shivers, and takes a moment to glory in the tingle of anticipation. Written on the package is a personal note from the broker—a prize, this one, a real prize; you just wait!—and he’s breathing high in his chest as he divides tape from paper with the reverence of a man defusing a bomb.

• • • •

Fragment 28. She is walking the halls of a museum . . .

• • • •

Someone is knocking at his door. His voice is hoarse, and he has to answer twice before he is heard. From the other side of the door comes notification that the Nine Benefactors will be meeting in a half-hour, and his presence is requested thirty minutes after that. Footsteps recede.

Not twenty-nine, he thinks. Of course not. Prime numbers are solitary. Never has he been so happy to be wrong. Exploding desire fills him, to live a life punctuated by such ecstatic mistakes. He uses his allotted hour to gather his things, then walks to the boardroom, smiling along the way at the thought of not having to hear the professor’s lecture. Wings still wet, antennae unfurling, the Dream Curator faces the Nine Benefactors. When they have finished with him, he asks them: Have you ever held a bird in your hands?

©2009 by Alex Irvine. Originally published in Edison’s Frankenstein (Postscripts #20/21), edited by Nick Gevers and Peter Crowther. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Ann Arbor, raised mostly in Ypsilanti, Michigan, with stops in Colorado and Texas and Tennessee. Graduate of the universities of Michigan, Maine, and Denver. Lives in a 160-year-old house in Maine where there is not a level floor to be found. Three kids. Two dogs, one bird, one snake. Devotee of soccer, baseball, and hockey. Also books, comics, games, and movies.

Ten Deals with the Indigo Snake

Mel Kassel | 3440 words

DEAL 1 — SAM

I’m fourteen the first time I bargain with the indigo snake. I find it basking on the rocks that are piled against the south side of our house, a lazily drawn line of black, like a cursive letter that has gotten away from itself.

It lifts its head as I walk up.

“Can you hurt Sam Mueller?” I ask.

I’ve taken health class by this point, so I know that I’m not supposed to speak to snakes. There are videos about what happens to the kids who do. But they’re so poorly made, the actresses too peppy and the snakes no more than plastic-eyed puppets. Hardly sinister; we all laugh at them.

We laughed after the school assembly, too, when the administration brought in people who had bargained before. They spoke to us about how they had been duped, thinking they could get away with one deal, one trade.

“But it’s never just one!” they all yelled.

They were from an organization called S.N.A.K.E.S, which stood for Say No And Keep Evil Silent. One had lost an arm to the venom of a Massasauga rattler, and he walked around the auditorium, shoving his puckered scar in people’s faces, asking, “You want this for yourself?” Another started crying as she recounted how, in the midst of a blackout, she had promised her unborn child to a python in exchange for more opiates. Later, it had slithered in and out of the hospital delivery room—first sleek, then full.

None of these scare tactics are necessary. We’re good kids, smart kids, and for the most part, the snakes are easy to ignore. They make promises that don’t entice us. They’re too out-of-touch to know what a middle-school girl would want, these garters and cottonmouths that follow us home, whispering rubies, gold coins, silks! And if you pause to hear what one has to say, a friend will catch you by the arm and keep you walking.

The indigo snake has never called out to me. It suns its iridescent body in full view every afternoon, waiting for me when I get home from school, and that’s enough of an offer. My parents don’t know, don’t worry, or have already bargained with it themselves.

“I don’t want him to die,” I say. “I just want him to get hurt a little bit.”

Why? Its black-diamond head drifts upward until it’s level with my eyes. The forked tongue tastes my breath. I am not afraid. Like every teen, like every person who has ever bartered with a snake, I think I have the game pegged.

“He’s a bully,” I say. “He talks about my boobs and tries to grab them in the hall. He’s disgusting and he deserves . . . I don’t know, whatever. He’s just awful.”

The indigo snake studies me. Then it lowers all of itself back onto the rocks, slowly, vainly.

Find my name. It says. Put it in your mouth and bring it to me.

The Wiki sidebar for indigo snake lists its conservation status (“least concern”), its most common temptations (“vengeance, medical cures”), and its taxonomical information, including its genus name. I learn that this is a common gateway trade—the snakes act like they long to know how we label them. But maybe asking for something so simple is just a way of setting their trading partners at ease.

“Drymarchon,” I say to the indigo snake. “It means ‘lord of the forest.’ That’s pretty cool, right?”

Right, it agrees.

I stand awkwardly in front of it, my eyes traveling along its length.

“Do you want me to call you Drymarchon?” I ask.

Yes.

We’ve done it. The rush of looking backwards at the risk is delicious, a lightness plucking at my stomach. It shouldn’t be possible to give something so small for such a large and personal favor. I’ve bet and won; just as I anticipated, I’m the rare case who gets what she wants.

The next day, Sam Mueller trips on the school stairs between lunch and fifth period. My friend Jenny swears that she saw the moment his elbow snapped inward as he tried to catch himself.

DEAL 2 — CHEMISTRY

I make my second bargain a few days later. Our first one had been a getting-to-know-you arrangement, I reason; the next will yield something more serious.

“Thank you for hurting Sam for me, Drymarchon,” I say as I approach its hoard of rocks.

I live here, it replies, and then it somehow shrugs, sending a casual wave from its neck through its midsection.

“I was wondering if you could get me an A in chemistry.”

I watch its face. Its tongue flicks, but its mouth and eyes are frozen. I can’t read it any more than I could read an oil slick.

Complicated, it says. But yes.

“Complicated means it will cost something more than a name?”

Yes, it says. Your hair.

“My hair?” I hold a hand up to my head. I straightened my hair this morning, a process that took two hours. I imagine the snake nesting in it, black scales against black strands.

“Why?” I ask.

That is the deal, it says.

I am too curious about the effects of the agreement to consider the cost. Will my mind change, become a machine for balancing elemental reactions? Will the snake simply tweak Mrs. Erwin’s gradebook, somehow? I agree, falling for an embarrassingly simple trick, the fine print of which becomes clear in six months: Drymarchon wants my hair for as long as I can produce it.

DEAL 3 — BOOK

Burned and smarting, I don’t deal with the snake for more than a decade. Here’s how we come to sleep together: a dull professorship, an unfinished popular science book about high fructose corn syrup, networking events that leave me dry-mouthed and hateful.

“What would it take to finish my book this year? And for it to do well?” I hold a plastic bag full of hair in my hand and watch the indigo snake’s tongue do its familiar slide, in and out of existence. We conduct these hair drops twice a year.

Let me sleep in your bed with you.

“What?”

I need to stay warm.

My jaw clenches and my newly shorn scalp prickles. I ask, even though I already know the answer: “How long?”

Every night.

No pitch, no persuasion. I try to weigh the cost of this new bargain, thinking back to my teenage self, whom I despise—the girl who had been too passive to find a topic that fired her up, and had turned to a snake instead. Whose fault is it that I am speaking to Drymarchon now? Who was responsible for the painful birth of my dissertation, the endless categorizing of carbohydrate sub-types and their absorption pathways from villi to liver?

I had felt wounded by our last deal, and swore then that I would not ask Drymarchon for anything further. My subsequent degrees were proof of my independence. I didn’t need the snake to move forward.

But everything is so dull, now. I’m exhausted by my students and how slowly they move through basic concepts. I want to punch my agent in the teeth every time he assures me of his confidence in the book. Momentary flares of anger have blended into a simmer that bathes my brain almost constantly, except for the evenings I spend at casinos, where I briefly reacquaint myself with risk. And forget dating—I bore myself, I can’t subject another person to that.

The indigo snake has grown much longer. As a straight line, it would stretch beyond my head and feet. My bed is a twin, and I tend to sprawl.

The wind rushes against the backs of my ears and I shiver. I know how Drymarchon’s body works, how its blood cools and slows to match the heat of whatever surface it presses against. It can only hope to find a place that won’t betray it while its flesh copycats the environment, completely separate from its will. I want to ask it where it’s been living, how hard it’s been to find somewhere hidden and large enough for nine feet of glistening scales.

Instead I ask, “What if I have someone over? Another person?” It’s the last boundary to this deal, and the only real one that matters, I suppose.

They won’t mind, it says.

Sharing a bed with Drymarchon turns my whole body into a braid. It winds itself around and through the crooks of me, loose but heavy, smooth with muscle. At first I find it difficult to fall asleep. Although snakes do not repulse me, I’m frightened that it will accidentally constrict, perhaps while dreaming of a hunt, like a dog.

We don’t do that. We beat our prey against rocks to kill, it reassures me when I voice my worry.

I feel it relax by degrees every night, a slow unknotting that travels in a helix down my skin. Soon, I start to relax with it. Soon, we start to say goodnight to each other.

DEAL 4 — SIMONE

Whenever I spend the night at someone else’s house, I picture the indigo snake, a lonely black thread beneath my comforter, warm enough but settled into empty whorls that should be cradling my skin. The image brings a strange feeling that isn’t quite guilt—more the sensation of wrongness, a break from tradition.

Simone is the only one I ever bring back to meet it. She likes my buzz cut and the ease with which I insult “certified” dieticians. I like her septum piercing and how she acts perfectly serene in her bartending job, no aspirations and no regrets.

“I asked a California king snake for an amazing singing voice once,” she says, stroking Drymarchon on my bed. “But I didn’t go through with it. It wanted a chicken egg every day for a year and I couldn’t have it hanging around. I had prom to go to and shit.”

“A chicken egg every day?” I raise an eyebrow at Drymarchon.

For eating, it says, as if I’m stupid.

“I know, it’s just way better than . . . my hair, for life.”

Not my choice, it says, and I never do figure out what it means, because Simone starts kissing me right in front of it. She tells me she loves to run her hands over my head because it’s fuzzy. She tells me the cut makes me look like I’m not afraid to show my whole face. I tell her I have to grow it out for a while so that the deal can stand, but if she sticks around, she’ll see it short again.

She has other girlfriends, though. I know about them, agree to them, but I just can’t handle it. I ask Drymarchon what it would cost to have her to myself, joking, mostly, and it says I would need to give it one of my ears.

“No,” I say, ashamed.

Later, I ask for another price check: How much for an inability to forget me? How much to lodge myself in her brain until she dies?

That only takes one of my toes, and I’m allowed to make a doctor’s appointment for the procedure. I watch Drymarchon swallow it afterwards and search frantically for hunger in its eyes.

DEAL 5 — FOOD

I trade Drymarchon six books (of its choice, from my shelves) for a pint of mint ice cream and a large carton of chicken fried rice, delivered to my bed. I don’t get up for three days unless I’m microwaving the rice. It’s a year or so after Simone, but it’s probably about her.

DEAL 6 — WARNING

Gambling debts mean righteous paranoia. I take Drymarchon out with me in public as an intimidation tactic, and it usually works, but the man I owe is no stranger to snakes. I picture a blackboard crammed with deals—some of them canceling each other out, others superseding weaker ones—and attempt to plan a defense.

“Can you get me the money?”

Yes, for your eyesight.

“No. Can you make it so that no one can make a deal to harm me directly?”

Your right arm.

“No. Can you make it so that he can’t find me ever again?”

Half of your liver.

“No! Can you tell me anything of fucking use?”

Yes, if you will help me with my skin.

I pull away at where its skin is flaking, revealing freshly inked scales beneath. It’s too early in the shedding process for a clean peel, and the work takes half an hour. I’m rougher than I have to be. I replay poker hands in my mind as I rip away the translucent swatches, seeing the right decisions in hindsight, grinding my teeth.

“Good enough?”

Yes. Sherman has given me a boon to reveal your address to him, as well as your parents’ and Simone’s.

My body stiffens, all my joints lock, and my eyes seem to push forward, threatening to leave my skull as I scream at it. How dare it deal with him, when it sleeps with me. How dare it leave when I was not at home to converse with the man who would hurt me and my family and Simone. I could pick it up by the tail and kill it with one swift whip-crack, does it know that?

We can’t say no, it says.

“Are you sad? Are you guilty? Do you feel anything at all?”

We can’t say no. We can only outline the terms.

“Do you want to deal with him?”

We can’t say no.

I try to prevent it from flowing into bed with me that night, but even the thought of thrashing against it makes me curl into a ball, feeling nauseous. There are stories of people who renege on deals, who tie themselves to telephone poles or lock themselves in rooms so that they won’t make good on their word. It never ends well. Either they succumb to the accord or they die, their bodies seizing as they vomit blood.

“What happens to you if the person you made a deal with dies?” I ask, making my voice sound sleepy even though I am helplessly awake.

I don’t know, Drymarchon says.

“I can’t believe I used to worry about selling a book,” I say.

DEAL 7 — GUN

They break into my apartment before they go after my parents or Simone. I owe Sherman upward of $20,000, so I can’t exactly blame him, but I wasn’t expecting his lackeys so soon. Most likely they just want to rough me up a little, spook me into desperation so that I get the money quick.

Drymarchon tightens around me for a few seconds, and that’s what wakes me up. Our exchange is terse.

“Give me a gun.”

Your ability to have children.

“Done.”

The memories are suddenly there, accessible and clear: shopping for the pistol, picking up the box of cartridges, their weighty jingling in my palm. The gun is under the pillow I don’t use. Nothing happens in my womb; nothing will. That’s fine.

I take aim and growl at the two men to get out. Lucky for me, they aren’t armed, having been told I’m not a danger. They leave while laughing at the fact that I surprised them.

DEAL 8 — SIMONE AGAIN

I go to her and tell her about Sherman, and then I end up telling her about the deal I made for her memory of me, too. She slaps me.

“I knew it was off,” she says. “It’s like a dream I can’t stop having. It’s too crisp. It fucks me up. You always being there.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I’d hate anything that came out of my mouth at this point, including that, but it’s all I can manage.

“Take it back,” she says. “Make it normal.” I nod. Drymarchon unspools itself and slithers forward.

“Can you undo what we did?” I ask it, refusing to make eye contact.

What you did. We can’t say no.

“What I did, then.”

Yes. A pint of blood.

“My blood?”

It doesn’t matter.

“I think it should be yours,” Simone spits, but neither of us has the equipment or the medical know-how, and I don’t have the money for a visit to Urgent Care, even if the nearest one would accept snake-based appointments. I end up in Chinatown, Drymarchon draped around my shoulders. Simone follows at a distance as I buy turtle after turtle. We read that the human body contains eight pints of blood; I estimate that ten large turtles should be enough.

But it isn’t. Emptying them above a bucket, their throats slit and shivering, leaves us a full quarter-pint short.

“Can’t you just give us a discount?” I ask Drymarchon, enraged.

No.

Simone throws the turtle corpses in the dumpster while I tighten one of her hairbands around my arm. It doesn’t make it any easier to see my veins. When she comes back up, I’ve got a steak knife hovering over my skin, and she’s on the phone telling someone not to come over just yet. That’s enough motivation for me to push down and slice.

DEAL 9 — HISTORY

I’m leaning against the bus window, my eyelids feeling like wet paper, my throat one big cramp from crying. My parents lent me most of the money when I gave them the vaguest outline of my troubles. I promised that the funds were for a gambling addiction rehab program. I’m praying it’s enough to call Sherman off.

“Do you have a story about the first deal?” I ask the duffel bag at my feet. Drymarchon stirs inside of it, a shadow displacing other shadows.

Yes.

“Can I hear it?”

If you tell me your version.

“You must have read it before, or had someone else tell it to you.”

Even so.

I relate what we’re told as children, about that first exchange in the garden, the fruit of knowledge for an escape from the tree. How the first snake entwined about the first woman’s arm as she reached up, then slid to her torso, then her leg, then to the ground, before it finally slithered off to make more deals with her unhappy, ever-gullible progeny.

Drymarchon listens, its head poised on the edge of the duffel.

There is no fruit in our story, it says. The first snake made a deal so that it would not be cold.

DEAL 10 — STEP ONE

I have an immediate crush on Renee, one of the women in our group. Her significant snake is a lovely little emerald tree boa who goes by Corallus, and it’s wrapped in the style of an infinity scarf around her neck. I stand next to her, and I’m struck by how well Drymarchon, my own blue-black shawl, complements the green.

You’re not supposed to date within the program, and even if it was permitted, I’m too old for her. Still, the prospect of seeing her might motivate me to come back next week.

I’m less fond of the program leader, Ollie. He’s looking pompous in a full suit and blue tie, his hair slicked to the side, a king cobra coiled between his feet. I wonder how many times he’s actually bargained with that snake—it’s not native here, that’s for sure. It feels performative.

He begins with a scripted phrase.

“Let’s make a deal, everyone. What do you say?”

“Healthy asks only,” says the man to his left.

“Wish no harm,” says the woman next to him. And so on, down the circle, skipping the new faces (myself included):

“Stick to yourself.”

“Nothing needless.”

“Assume no evil.”

And finally, all together: “It takes two to bargain.”

Ollie smiles, claps his hands together, and everyone shouts, “Agreed!”

We are asked to enumerate our deals, and the audience is asked not to judge. I am surrounded by sympathetic nods, which is unnerving. The first step, I am told, is to take responsibility for my desires and their impact.

“You’ll hear a lot of catchphrases around here,” says Ollie. “One is, ‘They don’t make the terms; they just know ’em.’”

I stare down at Drymarchon, certain that my own face looks lined and lost. Its scales are smooth against my bare shoulders. Forces in that long body conspire to give me a squeeze, and I inhale so that I can say what I’ve been told to say in one quick, quiet breath.

“Can you forgive me?”

Yes, it says. Soon.

©2018 by Mel Kassel.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mel Kassel is a writer who lives in Iowa City. Her stories often incorporate animals, mutable bodies, and strange desires. She is currently pursuing her MFA degree at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She is also a first reader for the magazine Liminal Stories and a co-host on The Losers’ Club: A Stephen King Podcast. She is a graduate of the Clarion Writers’ Workshop (Class of 2018). Before moving to Iowa, she was a veterinarian’s assistant, and before that, she was a copywriter. She also used to write sketch comedy. You can follow her on Twitter @MelKassel and at melkassel.com.

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

Investments

Walter Jon Williams | 35260 words

1.

The car sped south in the subtropical twilight. The Rio Hondo was on Lieutenant Severin’s right, a silver presence that wound in and out of his perceptions. As long as he stayed on the highway, the rental car, which knew Laredo better than he did, implemented its own navigation and steering, and Severin had nothing to do but relax, to gaze through the windows at the thick, vine-wrapped trunks of the cavella trees, the brilliant plumage of tropical birds, and the occasional sight of a hovercraft on the river, fans a deep bass rumble as it carried cargo south to the port at Punta Piedra. Overhead, stars began to glow on either side of the great glittering arc of Laredo’s accelerator ring. The silver river turned scarlet in the light of the setting sun.

The vehicle issued a series of warning tones, and Severin took the controls as the car left the highway. Severin drove through an underpass, then up a long straight alley flanked by live oaks, twisted black limbs sprawled like the legs of fantastic beasts. Overhead arced a series of formal gateways, all elaborate wrought iron covered with scrollwork, spikes, and heraldic emblems, and each with a teardrop-shaped light that dangled from the center of the arch and cast pale glow on the path. Beyond was a large house, two storeys wrapped with verandahs, painted a kind of orange-rust color with white trim. It was covered with lights.

People strolled along the verandahs and on the expansive lawns. They were dressed formally, and Severin began to hope that his uniform was sufficiently well tailored so as not to mark him out. Practically all the other guests, Severin assumed, were Peers, the class that the conquering Shaa had imposed on humanity and other defeated species. It was a class into which Severin had not been born, but rather one to which he’d nearly been annexed.

At the start of the Naxid Rebellion, Severin had been a warrant officer in the Exploration Service, normally the highest rank to which a commoner might aspire. As a result of service in the war, he’d received a field promotion to lieutenant, and suddenly found himself amid a class that had been as remote from him as the stars that glimmered above Laredo’s ring.

He parked in front of the house and stepped from the car as the door rolled up into the roof. Tobacco smoke mingled uneasily in the air with tropical perfume. A pair of servants, one Terran, one Torminel, trotted from the house to join him. The Torminel wore huge darkened glasses over her nocturnal-adapted eyes.

“You are Lieutenant Severin?” the Torminel asked, speaking carefully around her fangs.

“Yes.”

“Welcome to Rio Hondo, my lord.”

Severin wasn’t a lord, but all officers were called that out of courtesy, most of them being Peers anyway. Severin had got used to it.

“Thank you,” he said. He stepped away from the car, then hesitated. “My luggage,” he said.

“Blist will take care of that, my lord. I’ll look after your car. Please go up to the house, unless of course you’d prefer that I announce you.”

Severin could only imagine the puzzled, awkward silence that would follow a servant announcing his presence. He smiled and said, “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

He adjusted his blue uniform tunic and walked across the brick apron to the stairs. Perhaps, he thought, he should have brought his orderly, but in his years among the enlisted ranks he’d got used to looking after his own gear, and he never really gave his servant enough work to justify his existence.

Instead of taking his orderly with him to Rio Hondo, he’d given the man leave. In the meantime Severin could brush his own uniforms and polish his own shoes, something he rarely left to a servant anyway.

Severin’s heels clacked on the polished asteroid material that made up the floor of the verandah. A figure detached itself from a group and approached. Severin took a moment to recognize his host, because he had never actually met Senior Captain Lord Gareth Martinez face to face.

“Lieutenant Severin? Is that you?”

“Yes, lord captain.”

Martinez smiled and reached out to clasp Severin’s hand. “Very good to meet you at last!”

Martinez was tall, with broad shoulders, long arms, and big hands; he had wavy dark hair and thick dark brows. He wore the viridian green uniform of the Fleet, and at his throat was the disk of the Golden Orb, the empire’s highest decoration.

Severin and Martinez had been of use to each other during the war, and Severin suspected that it had been Martinez who had arranged his promotion to the officer class. He and Severin had kept in touch with one another over the years, but they’d never been in the same room together.

Martinez was a native of Laredo, a son of Lord Martinez, Laredo’s principal Peer; and when Martinez had returned to his home world, he’d learned that Severin was based on Laredo’s ring and invited him to the family home for a few days.

“You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid,” Martinez said. “It went on most of the afternoon. Fortunately you also missed the speeches.”

Martinez spoke with a heavy Laredo accent, a mark of his provincial origins that Severin suspected did him little good in the drawing rooms of Zanshaa High City.

“I’m sorry to have missed your speech anyway, my lord,” Severin said in his resolutely middle-class voice.

Martinez gave a heavy sigh. “You’ll get a chance to hear it again. I give the same one over and over.” He tilted his chin high and struck a pose. “‘The empire, under the guidance of the Praxis, contains a social order of unlimited potential.’” The pose evaporated. He looked at Severin. “How long are you on the planet?”

“Nearly a month, I think. Surveyor will be leaving ahead of Titan, while they’re still loading antihydrogen.”

“Where’s Surveyor bound, then?”

“Through Chee to Parkhurst. And possibly beyond even that . . . the spectra from Parkhurst indicate there may be two undiscovered wormholes there, and we’re going to look for them.”

Martinez was impressed. “Good luck. Maybe Laredo will become a hub of commerce instead of a dead end on the interstellar roadway.”

This was a good time to be in the Exploration Service. Founded originally to locate wormholes, stabilize them, and travel through them to discover new systems, planets, and species, the Service had dwindled during the last thousand years of Shaa rule as the Great Masters lost their taste for expanding their empire. Since the death of the last Shaa and the war that followed, the Convocation had decided again on a policy of expansion, beginning with Chee and Parkhurst, two systems that could be reached through Laredo, and which had been surveyed hundreds of years earlier without any settlement actually being authorized.

The Service was expanding to fill its mandate, and that meant more money, better ships, and new classes of young officers for Severin to be senior to. The Exploration Service now offered the possibility of great discoveries and adventure, and Severin—as an officer who had come out of the war with credit—was in a position to take advantage of such an offer.

A Terran stepped out of the house with a pair of drinks in his hand. He strongly resembled Martinez, and he wore the dark red tunic of the Lords Convocate, the six hundred-odd member committee that ruled the empire in the absence of the Shaa.

“Here you are,” he said, and handed a drink to Martinez. He looked at Severin, hesitated, and then offered him the second glass.

“Delta whisky?” he asked.

“Thank you.” Severin took the glass.

“Lieutenant Severin,” Martinez said, “allow me to introduce my older brother, Roland.”

“Lord convocate,” Severin said. He juggled the whisky glass to take Roland’s hand.

“Pleased you could come,” Roland said. “My brother has spoken of you.” He turned to Martinez. “Don’t forget that you and Terza are pledged to play tingo tonight with Lord Mukerji.”

Martinez made a face. “Can’t you find someone else?”

“You’re the hero,” Roland said. “That makes your money better than anyone else’s. You and my lord Severin can rehash the war tomorrow, after our special guests have left.”

Martinez looked at Severin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There are people here concerned with the Chee development, and it’s the polite thing to keep them happy.”

Since the Chee development concerned the settlement of an entire planet, and the special guests were presumably paying for it, Severin sympathized with the necessity of keeping them in a good mood.

“I understand,” he said.

Roland’s eyes tracked over Severin’s shoulder, and he raised his eyebrows. “Here’s Terza now.”

Severin turned to see a small group on the lawn, an elegant, black-haired woman in a pale gown walking hand-in-hand with a boy of three, smiling and talking with another woman, fair-haired and pregnant.

“Cassilda’s looking well,” Martinez remarked.

“Fecundity suits her,” said Roland.

“Fecundity and a fortune,” Martinez said. “What more could a man ask?”

Roland smiled. “Pliability,” he said lightly, then stepped forward to help his pregnant wife up the stairs. Martinez waited for the other woman to follow and greeted her with a kiss.

Introductions were made. The black-haired woman was Lady Terza Chen, Martinez’ wife and heir to the high-caste Chen clan. The child was Young Gareth. The light-haired woman was Lady Cassilda Zykov, who was apparently not an heir but came with a fortune anyway.

“Pleased to meet you,” Severin said.

“Thank you for keeping my husband alive,” Terza said. “I hope you won’t stop now.”

Severin looked at Martinez. “He seems to be doing well enough on his own.”

Lady Terza was slim and poised and had a lovely, almond-eyed face. She put a hand on Severin’s arm. “Have you eaten?”

“I had a bite coming down in the skyhook.”

She drew Severin toward the door. “That was a long time ago. Let me show you the buffet. I’ll introduce you to some people and then—” Her eyes turned to Martinez.

“Tingo with Mukerji,” Martinez said. “I know.”

She looked again at Severin. “You don’t play tingo, do you?”

Bankruptcy doesn’t suit me, he thought.

“No,” he said, “I’m afraid not.”

2.

Terza took Martinez’ arm in both her own and rested her head on his shoulder. “It was time you came home,” she said. “I’ve never seen you with your own people.”

He looked at her. “You’re my people, now,” he said.

Terza had spent most of her pregnancy on Laredo, but without him—that had been in wartime, with the Convocation in flight from the capital and Martinez fighting with the Fleet. After that, with the rebels driven from Zanshaa and the war at an end, the family had reunited in the High City to bask in the cheers of a thankful population. Chee and Parkhurst had been opened to settlement under Martinez patronage. Roland had been co-opted into the Convocation.

Now, three years later, the cheers of the High City had faded. Enmity on the Fleet Control Board kept Martinez from command of a ship or any meaningful assignments. Terza led an active life that combined a post at the Ministry of Right and Dominion with a full schedule of High City diversions: receptions, balls, concerts, exhibitions, and an endless round of parties. Martinez was feeling more and more like his wife’s appendage, trailed around from one event to the next.

The choice was stark: either go home or write his memoirs. Sitting down to write the story of his life, like an old man at the end of his days with nothing to offer to the empire but words, was an image he found repellent. He arranged for passage to Laredo on the huge transport Wi-hun, and embarked his family and their servants.

Before he left, Martinez applied to be appointed Lord Inspector of the Fleet for Laredo, Chee, and Parkhurst, thus giving his journey an official pretext. The appointment was approved so quickly that Martinez could only imagine the joy on the Fleet Control Board at the news that Senior Captain Martinez had been willing, for once, to settle for a meaningless task.

The appointment kept him on the active list. It gave him the authority to interfere here and there, if he felt like interfering. Maybe he would interfere just to convince himself that postwar arrangement hadn’t made him irrelevant.

“Captain Martinez! Lady Terza! Are you ready for tingo?”

Martinez decided that he wouldn’t submerge into irrelevance just yet, not as long as games of tingo were without a fifth player.

“Certainly, Lord Mukerji,” he said.

Lord Mukerji was a short, spare Terran with wiry gray hair, a well-cultivated handlebar mustache, and all the social connections in the worlds. He had been brought in as the President of the Chee Development Company in order to provide the necessary tone. Opening two whole worlds to settlement was beyond the financial capabilities even of the staggeringly rich Lord Martinez, and outside investors had to be brought in. It had to be admitted that the Peers and financiers of the High City preferred to hear about investment opportunities in tones more congenial to their ears than those uttered in a barbaric Laredo accent.

And Lord Mukerji had certainly done his job. Investment had poured into the company’s coffers from the moment he’d begun spreading his balm on the moneyed classes. Important Peer clans were signed on to become the official patrons of settlers, of cities, or even of entire industries. Company stock was doing well on the Zanshaa Exchange, and the bonds were doing even better.

Martinez and Terza took their seats as a tall figure loomed above the table. “Do you know Lord Pa?” Mukerji said.

“We’ve met only briefly, before dinner,” Martinez said.

Lord Pa Maq-fan was a Lai-own, a species of flightless birds, and was the chairman of a privately-held company that was one the prime contractors for the Chee development. From his great height he looked at Terza and Martinez with disturbing blood-red eyes and bared the peg teeth in his short muzzle. “All Lai-own know Captain Martinez,” he said. “He saved our home world.”

“Very kind of you to say so,” Martinez said as Lord Pa settled his keel-like breastbone into his special chair.

It was always heartening when people remembered these little details.

“I haven’t kept people waiting, I hope.” Lady Marcella Zykov hastened into to her place at the table. She was a first cousin of Roland’s bride Cassilda, and the chief of operations for the Chee Company, having been put in place to look after the money the Zykov clan was putting into the venture. She was a very short, very busy woman in her thirties, with a pointed face and auburn hair pulled into an untidy knot behind her head, and she absently brushed tobacco ash off her jacket as she took her place.

“Shall we roll the bones, then?” Lord Mukerji said.

All players bet a hundred zeniths. The bones were rolled, and they appointed Marcella the dealer. She ran the tiles through the sorting machine and dealt each player an initial schema.

“Discard,” said Terza, who sat on her right, and removed the Three Virtues from her schema.

“Claim,” said Lord Mukerji. He took the Three Virtues into his schema and smiled beneath his broad mustaches. He waited for Marcella to be dealt a new tile, then touched a numbered pad on the table. “Another two hundred,” he said.

Martinez thought it was a little early in the game to raise, but he paid two hundred for a new tile just to see where the game would go. Two rounds later, when Lord Mukerji doubled, Martinez and Terza both dropped out. The game was won by Lord Pa, who had quietly built a Tower that he dropped onto Lord Mukerji’s Bouquet of Probity.

“Roll the bones,” said Mukerji.

The bones made Mukerji the dealer. As he ran the tiles through the sorting machine, Marcella looked up from the table.

“Will you be traveling to Chee, Captain Martinez?”

“I’m Lord Inspector for Chee,” Martinez said, “so I’ll be required to inspect the skyhook, the station, and the other Fleet facilities.”

“And Parkhurst as well?”

“There’s nothing in the Parkhurst system at the moment but a Fleet survey vessel. I can wait for it to return.”

“I can offer you transport on the Kayenta,” Marcella said, “if you can leave in twenty days or so.” She turned to Terza. “That way Lady Terza can accompany you without the discomforts of a Fleet vessel or a transport.”

Martinez was pleasantly surprised. He’d been planning on booking a ride on one of the giant transports heading to Chee—they carried immigrants as well as cargo and had adequate facilities for passengers—but Kayenta was the Chee Company’s executive yacht, with first-class accommodations and a crew that included a masseur and a cosmetician.

He turned to Terza, who seemed delighted by the offer. “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll definitely consider the option.”

“Are you going out to Chee yourself, Lady Marcella?” Mukerji asked.

“Yes. They’re beginning the new railhead at Corona, and Lord Pa and I will need to consult with Allodorm.”

Martinez caught the surprise that crossed Terza’s face, surprise that was swiftly suppressed. Terza took up her tiles.

“Is that Ledo Allodorm?” she asked.

Lord Pa’s blood-red eyes gazed at her from across the table. “Yes,” he said. “Do you know that gentleman?”

“Not personally,” Terza said, as she looked down at her tiles. “His name came up, I don’t know where.”

Martinez noted with interest that his wife wore the serene smile that experience told him was a sure sign she was telling less than the truth.

“Shall we roll the bones?” asked Lord Mukerji.

Mukerji doubled three times on the first three rounds and drove everyone else out of the game. Martinez realized he’d found his way into a very serious and potentially expensive contest, and began to calculate odds very carefully.

Terza won the following game with the Six Cardinal Directions. Lord Pa won the next. Marcella the game after. Then Lord Pa, then Martinez with a Bouquet of Delights over Lord Mukerji’s Crossroads.

“Roll the bones,” said Lord Mukerji.

Lord Pa took another game, then Terza, and Marcella won three games in a row. In the next game, the bones rolled six, so the stakes were doubled and the bones rolled again, and this time proclaimed Martinez dealer. He discarded Two Sunsets, only to have Lord Mukerji claim it, which argued that Lord Mukerji was aiming at filling a Bouquet of Sorrows. Mukerji in his turn was dealt, and discarded, a South, which Martinez claimed to add to his East and Up to make three of the Six Cardinal Directions. On subsequent turns, Martinez was dealt a West, needing only a North and a Down for six. Mukerji claimed Four Night Winds, doubled, kept a tile he was dealt, doubled, was dealt and discarded Two Ancestors, then doubled again anyway. Terza and Lord Pa dropped out of the game during the doubling, turning over their tiles to reveal unpromising schemas.

Martinez looked at the total and felt his mouth go dry. He received a generous allowance from his father, but to continue the game would be to abuse his parent severely.

His contemplation of the score made him a critical half-second late when Marcella, dropping out of the game, made her final discard, a Down.

“Claim,” Mukerji said.

Mukerji had claimed the tile simply to thwart him. Martinez, the word already spilling from his lips, had no choice but to let Mukerji take the tile he badly needed to complete his hand.

“Double,” Mukerji said, his eyes gleaming.

Martinez looked at his schema, then scanned the discards and the tiles of the players who had dropped out of the betting. Neither of the two Norths was revealed, and neither was the second Down.

He looked at his own tiles again. Beside the Directions he had Three and Four Ships, a Sunlit Garden, and a Road of Metal. If he got Two or Five Ships, he’d have a Small Flotilla. A Flotilla plus the Cardinal Directions equaled a Migration.

He scanned the discards and reveals again, and saw singletons of Two and Five Ships, which meant other Ships were still in the sorting machine.

Or already in Lord Mukerji’s schema.

Martinez decided it was worth the risk.

Without speaking Martinez dealt himself another tile. It was Four Ships, and he discarded it. Lord Mukerji ignored it and took another tile, which he discarded.

Five Ships. Martinez claimed it, discarded his Road of Metal, then dealt himself another tile, which he discarded.

He was suddenly aware that the room had fallen silent, that others stood around him, watching. Roland watched from amid the spectators with a frown on his face, and Cassilda with her hands pressed protectively over her swelling abdomen. Lord Pa’s red eyes were obscured by nictitating membranes. Marcella was frozen in her seat, but her hands formed little fists and her knuckles were white.

Terza, on his right, had the serene smile that she wore to conceal her thoughts, but he saw the tension crimping the corners of her eyes.

Lord Mukerji was dealt and discarded a tile, and then Martinez dealt himself an Angle, which he discarded.

“Claim,” Mukerji said in triumph.

He laid down his completed Bouquet of Sorrows, then added the Angle to his Point and his Coordinate, making a Geometry. His grin broadened beneath the spreading mustache as he pushed the odd Down into the discard pile.

“That’s a game for me, then,” he said.

“Claim,” said Martinez.

He turned over his tiles to reveal the incomplete Migration, which he completed by adding the Down and discarding his Sunlit Garden. From the room he heard a collective exhalation of breath.

He looked at Mukerji, who was suddenly very white around the eyes. “That’s a limit schema,” Mukerji said.

Honesty compelled Martinez to speak. “And the bones came up six, if you remember, so the limit is doubled. And I’m dealer, so that doubles again.”

Lord Mukerji surveyed the table, then slowly leaned backwards into his chair, draping himself on the chair back as if he were a fallen flag.

“What is the limit?” Martinez heard someone ask.

“Ten thousand,” came the reply.

“Fucking amazing,” said the first.

“Well played,” said Lord Mukerji. “I do believe you let me have that Cardinal Direction on purpose.”

“Of course,” Martinez lied.

Mukerji held out his hand. “You must give me an opportunity for revenge,” he said.

Martinez took the hand. “Later tonight, if you like.”

There was applause from the crowd as the two clasped hands.

“I need to visit the smoking lounge,” Marcella said, and stood.

Martinez rose from the table. His head spun, and his knees felt watery. Terza rose with him and took his arm.

“That was terrifying,” she murmured.

“Ten thousand doubled twice,” Martinez breathed. “For forty we could buy a small palace in the High City.”

“We already have a small palace.”

“I could have lost it tonight.” He passed a hand over his forehead.

Roland loomed up at his other elbow. “That was well judged,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“But you were lucky.”

Martinez looked at him. “I am lucky,” he said. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have been a senior captain before he was thirty.

“Just so you don’t go counting on it.” A mischievous light glowed in Roland’s eyes. “You’re not taking up tingo as a substitute for the excitement of combat, are you?”

“Combat’s easier,” Martinez said. He looked at his brother. “That isn’t true, by the way.”

“I know.”

A thought passed through Martinez’ mind. “Mukerji wasn’t playing with our money, was he?”

“You mean the Company’s? No. His presidency is ceremonial; he doesn’t have access to the accounts. He doesn’t even take a salary.”

Martinez raised an eyebrow.

“Oh,” Roland said, “we gave him lots of stock. If the Chee Company does well, so does he.”

“He may have to sell some of his stock after tonight.”

Roland shook his head. “He can afford a lot of nights like this.”

“How many, I wonder?” Terza said. She stroked Martinez’ arm. “I should make sure Gareth’s got to bed. If you’re all right?”

“I could use a drink.”

“Absolutely not,” Roland said. “Not if you’re committed to an evening of high play.”

Martinez let go a long breath. “You’ve got a point.”

Terza smiled, patted his arm, and went in search of the children. Martinez went to the bar with Roland, ordered an orange juice, and poured it over ice.

Roland ordered champagne. “You don’t have to rub it in,” Martinez said, and turned to find Severin at his elbow.

“You’re finding your way all right?” Martinez asked.

“Yes. There’s a Cree band tuning in the ballroom. I’ll dance.”

“Good.”

“I hear you’ve done something spectacular at tingo. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Martinez felt a tingle of vanity. “I made a mistake early on,” he said, “but I calculated the odds correctly in the end.”

He explained the play as he made his way back to the parlor. They came to Mukerji, who was speaking with Lord Pa. “If the geologist’s report was in error, then it must be done again, of course,” he said. “I’m sure Cassilda will—” He broke off, then looked at Martinez. “Lord captain,” he said. “Shall we resume the game?”

“We seem to be without a few players as yet,” Martinez said. “May I introduce Lieutenant Severin? He saved the empire at Protipanu, and saved me a few months later, during the battle there.”

Pa looked down from his great height, nictitating membranes clearing his red eyes as he gazed at Severin with studious intensity. “I don’t recall any of that in the histories,” he said.

“The wrong people wrote the histories,” Martinez said. Those same people had decided to keep Severin’s contribution to the war a secret. He had used a trick of physics to physically move a wormhole out from under a Naxid squadron, and since the empire depended for its very existence on the wormholes that knit its systems together, the censors had decided not to remind people that such a thing could be done.

“In any case, lord lieutenant, I am pleased to meet you,” said Pa to Severin.

“So am I,” Mukerji said. His long mustache gave a twitch. “You wouldn’t care to join us for a game of tingo?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Severin said, “but I don’t play.”

“Don’t play tingo?” Mukerji said, blinking with apparent astonishment. “What do you do in those officers’ clubs or wardrooms or whatever you call them?”

“Mostly I do paperwork,” Severin said.

“Perhaps we should actively search for a fifth player,” Martinez said. “I’m not certain that Terza will return from putting Gareth to bed anytime soon.”

He spoke quickly. He knew that, as someone promoted from the ranks, Severin was unlikely to possess the large private income normal for most officers. Very possibly the unfortunate man was forced to live on his pay. A game of tingo played for high stakes wasn’t simply unwise for a man like Severin, it was impossible.

Best to get him off the hook as quickly as possible.

Pa and Mukerji went in search of a tingo player, and Martinez asked Severin about his last voyage, several months in which Surveyor had been in the Chee system, making one rendezvous after another with asteroids, strapping antimatter-fueled thrusters onto the giant rocks, and sending them on looping courses to Wormhole Station One, where they were used to balance the mass coming into the system on the huge freighters. The task was both dull and dangerous, a risky combination, but the voyage had been successful and the wormhole station wouldn’t need any more raw material for a year or more.

“Fortunately the mass driver on Chee’s moon is taking over the job of supplying the wormhole stations,” Severin said, “so we’re available for other duties.”

“Excellent. Your voyage was uneventful otherwise?”

“Our skipper’s good,” Severin said. “No one on the trip tore so much as a hangnail.”

“Do I know him?” Martinez asked.

“Lord Go Shikimori. An old Service family.”

Martinez considered, then shook his head. “The name’s not familiar.”

Marcella returned from the smoking lounge brushing ash from her jacket. Pa and Mukerji arrived with an elderly, fangless Torminel named Lady Uzdil.

“I seem to be caught up in the game,” Martinez told Severin. “My apologies.”

“I think I hear music,” Severin said.

“Enjoy.”

What did Severin do with himself in his ship’s wardroom? Martinez wondered. He probably couldn’t afford most of an officer’s amusements.

And judging by his uniform, he couldn’t afford much of a tailor, either.

Martinez settled in to play tingo. Lady Uzdil seemed to be shedding: the air was full of graying fur. Martinez played conservatively, which meant that he frequently allowed himself to be driven out of a round by Mukerji’s insistent doubling. He held firm when fortune gave him good tiles, though, and managed a modest profit on top of the forty thousand he’d won earlier. Lord Pa did very well, Cassilda well enough, and Lady Uzdil lost a modest amount. It was Mukerji who lost heavily, plunging heavily on one bad venture after another. Though he didn’t run afoul of any limit schemas, and he didn’t lose another High City palace, Martinez calculated that he lost at least the value of a sumptuous country villa—and not one on Laredo, either, but on Zanshaa.

After two hours, Martinez considered that he’d done his duty in giving Mukerji a chance to win his money back, and left the game. Mukerji protested, but Cassilda and Pa were happy with their winnings and left the game as well.

“I’m glad he doesn’t have any financial control in the Chee Company,” Martinez told Terza later, when he was abed. “Not if he runs a business the same way he gambles.”

“I’m sure he has no idea whatever of how to run a business,” Terza said as she approached the bed. “That’s what Marcella’s for.” She wore a blue silk nightgown, had bound her long black hair with matching blue ribbon into a long tail that she wore over one shoulder. The look gave her a pleasing asymmetry. Martinez reached out one of his big hands and stroked her hip with the back of his knuckles.

Their marriage had been arranged by their families, one of Roland’s more elaborate and insistent conspiracies. Martinez felt free to resent Roland’s interference, but he had decided long ago not to resent Terza.

“What about Ledo Allodorm?” he asked.

Terza’s almond eyes widened faintly. “You noticed?” she asked.

“I saw you react to the name. I doubt the others know you well enough to have seen what I did.”

“Move over. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Martinez made room on the bed. Terza slipped beneath the covers and curled on her side facing Martinez. Her scent floated delicately through his perceptions.

“I found out about Allodorm when I was asked to review some old contracts left over from the war,” she said. The Ministry of Right and Dominion, where she was posted, was the civilian agency that encompassed the Fleet, and dealt with issues of contracts, supply, Fleet facilities, budgets, and support.

“Allodorm is a Daimong from Devajjo, in the Hone Reach,” she continued. “During the war he received a contract to build four—or was it five?—transport vessels for the Fleet. The war ended before he could deliver the ships, and the contract was canceled.”

“So what did he do?” Martinez asked. “Convert the transports to civilian purposes? That would be allowed, wouldn’t it, if the government didn’t want them anymore?”

Terza frowned. “There was an allegation that he never built the ships at all.”

Martinez blinked. “He took the money and did nothing?”

“Other than commission some architects, print some stationary, and recruit some staff and some high-priced legal talent, no.” She looked thoughtful. “It was possible to make a calculation that the war would be over before he had to deliver. If we won, the contracts would be canceled; and if the Naxids won, they wouldn’t care if he’d started work or not.”

“Didn’t the Investigative Service climb all over Allodorm’s operation? Couldn’t the ministry at least have asked for its money back?”

Terza offered a mild shrug. “After the war, the IS was involved in purging rebels and their sympathizers, and didn’t spare a thought for the people who were supposed to be on our side. When the file finally came across my desk, I recommended an investigation, but the ministry decided against it. I don’t know why; it’s possible that Allodorm is politically protected.”

“So now Allodorm is on Chee, and Marcella and Lord Pa are traveling to consult with him.”

“Maybe he’s a sub-contractor.”

“That doesn’t speak well for the prospect of the Chee Company’s balance sheet.”

“The Chee Company may be all right,” Terza pointed out. “It’s Lord Pa and the Meridian Company that’s the prime contractor. If anyone’s being gouged, it’s probably them.”

“Either way, it’s my family’s money.” He shifted closer to Terza’s warmth and she rested her head on his shoulder and put an arm across his chest. “Our balance sheet has improved anyway. What shall we do with Mukerji’s cash?”

He could sense her amusement. “Buy something preposterous, I suppose. You’ve always talked about taking up yachting.”

Martinez felt a twinge of annoyance. “They wouldn’t let me into the Seven Stars or the Ion Club,” he said. “A provincial can’t pass their august doors, no matter how many medals he’s won.” He kissed Terza’s forehead. “Or how many high-placed ministry officials he’s married.”

“So join a lesser club,” Terza said, “and beat the pants off the Seven Stars in every match.”

Martinez grinned at the ceiling. “That’s not a half-bad idea,” he said.

He felt Terza’s warm breath on his neck as she spoke. “Is this the room you lived in as a child?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Same furniture, too, but the model Fleet ships that I hung from the ceiling are gone. And so are the uniform guides to the various academies that I’d tacked up on the walls.”

Her low chuckle came to his ear. “So joining the Fleet was your idea, I take it.”

“Oh yes. I had a lot of romantic ideas—must have got those from my mother. And my father didn’t mind, because in the Fleet at least I’d learn some useful skills.”

He remembered, before the war, when speaking with—with a certain person, a woman he preferred not ever to think about, a woman with pale hair and milky skin and blazing green eyes—he’d expressed his frustration at being in a meaningless service, a club not unlike the Seven Stars but less useful, a club devoted to ritual and display and serving the limitless vanity of its commanders.

The war had changed that, at least for a while.

What hadn’t changed, apparently, were the politically-connected contractors who gouged the government while delivering shoddy, late, or nonexistent work.

That, he supposed, was the government’s business. What concerned Martinez was that if Allodorm were stealing money now, he was no longer stealing it just from the government, but the Martinez family.

In which case, it had to stop.

Terza pressed closer to Martinez on the bed. She kissed his cheek. “I wonder,” she said, “if when you were a boy in this bed, you ever imagined—”

Martinez sat up, displacing Terza’s head and arm. “Comm,” he said. “Wall display: on.”

The chameleon-weave fabric of the display normally matched the geometric pattern of the wallpaper, but now it brightened into a video screen displaying the Martinez crest. “Comm: search,” Martinez said. “Ledo plus Allodorm plus Meridian plus Company. Begin.”

In a half-second data flashed on the screen. Martinez chose the first listing, and saw a page from the Meridian Company’s official prospectus of the Chee development. He absorbed the information.

“Allodorm’s chief engineer for the Meridian Company,” he said. “He’s in charge of all their projects on Chee. All of them.”

He turned to Terza and saw her pensive expression. “Something wrong?” he said.

A serene smile crossed her face, the one he knew for its falsity.

“Nothing at all,” she said.

3.

“Daddy says I’m a genius. Daddy says I’m going to do great things.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Severin.

“I’m going to smash Naxids.” The dark-haired child raised a hand over his head. In his fist was a toy warship. He flung it on the polished asteroid material of the verandah. “Bang!”

“Good shot,” Severin observed.

He’d grown up with a pair of younger sisters, and knew how to keep a young child entertained. Lord Gareth Chen—who bore his father’s first name but the surname of his mother, who was the Chen heir and ranked higher—picked up the warship and flung it again. Wet explosive sounds came from his pursed lips.

“But what if the Naxids come from this direction?” Severin asked, and leaned out of his metal whitewashed chair to threaten the boy’s flank.

“Bang!”

“Or from here?” The other flank.

“Bang!”

“Or here?” Overhead.

“Bang!”

Lord Gareth the Younger was at a stage of life where this could go on for quite a while before he got bored. Having nothing better to do, Severin was content to continue the game, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

He had awakened that morning with a dream clinging to his memory like a shroud. In the dream, he had been driving up the oak alley toward the house, beneath the series of iron arches, and somehow one of the arches had transformed itself into a proscenium, and he’d stepped through the proscenium onto a stage that was the house.

The house had been covered with lights, and a party had been under way. The guests glittered in fine clothes and uniforms. Severin knew none of them. Their conversation was strangely oblique, and Severin kept feeling that he could understand them if only he listened a little harder. At some point he discovered that they were not people at all, but automata, smiling and glimmering as they spoke words that had been pre-programmed by someone else.

In the dream, Severin hadn’t found this discovery horrifying, but intensely interesting. He wandered through the party listening to the conversation and admiring the brilliance of the puppets’ design.

When he woke, he was still under the spell of the dream. He breakfasted alone on the terrace—apparently his hosts were not yet awake—and he found himself thinking about the strange conversations that he’d heard, and trying to work out the obscure story behind them.

He thought about going back to bed and hoping to pick the dream up where it had left off, but at this point Gareth Junior arrived, and the battle with the Naxids began.

Severin was rescued by Martinez, who came out of the house and lunged at his son, scooping him up in both arms and whirling him overhead as the child shrilled his laughter.

Following Martinez from the house came his older brother Roland, who carried a cup of coffee in one hand. Both wore civilian clothes, which made Severin more conscious than usual of his shabby uniform.

“I suppose it won’t be long before I’m behaving like that,” Roland said as he watched Martinez twirling his son.

“I suppose it won’t,” Severin said.

Roland sipped coffee. Martinez tucked his son under one arm and turned to Severin. “Has the boy prodigy been bothering you?”

“He’s been mashing Naxids, mostly.”

Martinez grinned. “Exercising tactical genius, eh? Just like his father!” Young Gareth still under his arm, Martinez sprinted into the house as the child waved his fists and laughed aloud.

“Perhaps I won’t behave like that, after all,” Roland decided.

Martinez returned a few moments later, having delivered his offspring to the nursemaid. He combed his disordered hair with his fingers and dropped into the whitewashed metal chair next to Severin.

“I saw you dancing last night,” he said. “With a curly-haired girl.”

“Lady Consuelo Dalmas,” Severin said.

“Consuelo.” Martinez blinked. “I thought she looked familiar. I used to see her older sister, when we were all, ah, much younger.”

“She’s invited me to a garden party tomorrow afternoon.”

Martinez smiled. “Have a good time.”

“I will.” He considered offering a resigned sort of sigh and decided against it. “Of course,” he added, “sooner or later either she or her parents will discover that I’m not a Peer, and have no money, and then I won’t see her again.” Severin clasped his hands between his knees. “But then I’m used to that.”

Martinez gave him an unsettled look. “You’re not regretting your promotion, I hope.”

“No.” Severin considered. “But it’s made me aware of how many locked doors there are, doors that I once had no idea even existed.”

“If there’s anything I can do to open them . . .” Martinez ventured.

“Thank you. I’m not certain there’s anything that can be done.”

“Unless we have another war,” Roland said. “Then all bets are off.”

Smiling lightly to himself, Roland walked to the verandah rail and looked out into the oak alley, raising his head at the honeyed scent of the o-pii flowers floating on the morning breeze. “Consuelo’s not right for you anyway, if you don’t mind my saying so,” he said. “Too young, too much a part of the fashionable set. What you need is a comely widow, or a young woman married to a dull old husband.”

Martinez looked at him. “You don’t have anyone in mind, do you?”

“Let me put my mind to it.”

Martinez gave Severin an uneasy look. “Better make your wishes plain. Roland has disturbing success as a matchmaker.”

There was something in the air, Severin felt, some history between the brothers that made this an uncomfortable moment.

“I’m only here for a month,” Severin said.

“Narrow window of opportunity,” Roland said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Martinez looked at Roland. “Apropos conspiracy,” he said, “do you know anything about Allodorm, Meridian Company’s chief engineer?”

“I’ve met him on Chee Station,” Severin said. “Though I haven’t conspired with him.”

“I haven’t met him at all,” Roland said. He turned around, eyes mild as he contemplated his brother. “I appreciate your confidence in my omniscience, but what I really do is look after family interests in the Convocation. I’m not really connected to the Chee development business.”

“Terza thinks that Allodorm’s a swindler,” Martinez said. “And if she’s right, he’s in a perfect place to walk off with a lot of our money.”

Roland absorbed this with a distracted frown. “What does Terza know, exactly?”

“During the war, he took the money to build five ships and then didn’t build them.”

Severin felt a moment of shock. As an officer in government service, he was familiar enough with waste and theft, but five whole missing ships seemed extreme.

There was a moment of silence, and then Roland turned to Severin.

“I’d appreciate your discretion,” he said.

“Certainly,” Severin said.

“There may not be anything in this,” Roland said.

“Of course,” Severin said.

He found himself fascinated by the interactions in this household, the delicate play between the decorated Fleet officer and his politician brother. Since his promotion, he’d had the opportunity to observe several Peer families, and none had been quite like this one.

“I wish I knew who hired Allodorm,” Martinez said pensively.

“Lord Pa, presumably,” Roland said. “The question is whether Lord Pa knew about the Fleet ships, or cared if he did.” He pulled another of the metal chairs toward Severin and sat. “Would you tell us about this Allodorm?”

Severin shrugged. “He’s a Daimong. Youngish, I think, though with Daimong it’s hard to tell. When Surveyor first docked at Chee Station, he was on hand to make sure we got everything we needed. I thought that was very good of him.”

“Were you treated well?” Roland asked.

“Yes. Since I’m the exec, the lord captain assigned me to work with Allodorm, and it was first-class all the way. Supplies came aboard within hours of submitting our requests. The victuals were fresh. Allodorm put one of the worker hostels at Port Vipsania at the disposal of our liberty crew, and he hosted a dinner for the officers.”

“Nothing odd?” Martinez asked. “Nothing a little off-center in the way the station’s run?”

“Other than it being first-class, no,” Severin said. “In the Exploration Service, we’re used to things being more worn and shabby—it’s not like we’ve got the Fleet’s prestige or budget—but everything on Chee Station was new and shiny and efficient. The facilities were bigger than they needed, but then there are plans to expand.”

The brothers contemplated this. “I don’t suppose we should tell our father.”

“What would we tell him? We’ve got dozens of inspectors on Chee anyway—what can he do that they can’t?”

Martinez gave a little shrug. “Not get bribed?” he said.

“Father’s supposed to open the meeting of the Petitioners’ Council in something like fifteen days.” Roland gave a tight little smile. “If he abandons his task and goes charging off to Chee on the Ensenada to expose the wicked, that’s all the warning Allodorm or anyone else is going to need. Everything would be tidied up by the time he gets there.”

“And you?”

“I’m not going anywhere until Cassilda has our baby, after which the whole family will leave for Zanshaa so that I can sit in Convocation.”

Martinez sighed. “I’m the Lord Inspector, aren’t I? I suppose it’s up to me to inspect.”

Severin thought again about the two brothers. They knew each other well, they worked together deftly, they had a shared history and vocabulary. It occurred to Severin, however, that perhaps they didn’t like each other.

“Lady Liao,” Roland said suddenly.

Martinez looked at him. “Beg pardon?”

Roland turned to Severin. “Lady Liao, wife of Lord Judge Omohundro. She’s perfect for you. Her husband’s on the ring tied up in a long series of hearings, and I’m sure she’s looking for amusement.”

Severin could do nothing but stare. Can you do that? he wanted to ask.

Roland looked at him. “Shall I invite her to tea?” he said.

4.

“We are holding at five minutes,” said Lord Go Shikimori, captain of the Surveyor.

“Holding at five minutes, my lord,” said Severin.

Surveyor awaited final permission from Ring Control to launch on its mission through Chee and Parkhurst to the possible wormholes beyond. Encircled by the round metal hoops of his acceleration cage, Severin glanced down at the pilot’s board before him—it was he who would steer Surveyor from the ring and into the great emptiness beyond. Not that the job was particularly difficult.

The lights of the pilot’s board glittered on the ring Severin wore on the middle finger of his right hand. Nine small sapphires sparkled around a central opal. The ring had been a parting gift from Lady Liao, one sapphire for each night she and Severin had spent together.

For a moment he was lost in reverie, memories of smooth cool sheets, silken flesh, Lady Liao’s subtle scent. Wind chimes that saluted the dawn on the balcony outside her room.

Lord Roland Martinez, he thought, was very, very intelligent.

“Message from Ring Control, my lord,” reported Lord Barry Montcrief, who sat at the comm board—he had the drawling High City accent that Lord Go preferred as the official voice of his ship. “Permission granted to depart the station en route to Chee system.”

“Resume countdown,” the captain said.

“Countdown resumed,” said Warrant Officer Lily Bhagwati, who sat at the engines station.

“Depressurize boarding tube. Warn crew for zero gravity.”

“Depressurizing boarding tube.” Alarms clattered through the ship. “Zero gravity alarm, my lord.”

Severin checked his board, took the joysticks in his hands, rotated them. “Maneuvering thrusters gimbaled,” he said. “Pressure at thruster heads nominal.”

“Boarding tube depressurized.”

“Withdraw boarding tube,” said the captain.

“Boarding tube . . .” Waiting for the light to go on. “. . . withdrawn, my lord.”

“Electrical connections withdrawn,” said Bhagwati. “Outside connectors sealed. Ships is on one hundred percent internal power.”

“Data connectors withdrawn,” said Lord Barry. “Outside data ports sealed.”

“Main engines gimbaled,” said Bhagwati. “Gimbal test successful.”

“Hold at ten seconds,” said the captain. “Status, everyone.”

All stations reported clean boards.

“Launch in ten,” Lord Go said. “Pilot, the ship is yours.”

“The ship is mine, my lord.” Severin released and clenched his hands on the joysticks.

The digit counter in the corner of his display counted down to zero. Lights flashed. “Clamps withdrawn,” Severin said. “Magnetic grapples released.”

Severin suddenly floated free in his webbing as Surveyor was cast free of Laredo’s accelerator ring. Surveyor had been moored nose-in, and the release of centripetal force from the upper ring, which was spinning at seven times the rate of the planet below, gave the ship a good rate of speed that carried it clear of any potential obstacles.

Severin checked the navigation display anyway, and saw no threats. He thumbed buttons on his joysticks and engaged the maneuvering thrusters. An increase in gravity snugged him against his chest harness. He fired the thrusters several more times to increase the rate at which Surveyor was withdrawing from the ring.

It was very illegal to fire Surveyor’s main antimatter engines, with their radioactive plumes, anywhere near the inhabited ring. Severin needed to push the ship past the safety zone before Surveyor could really begin its journey.

Again Severin checked the navigation displays. He could see the Chee Company yacht Kayenta outbound for Wormhole Station Two, carrying Martinez and Lady Terza to the newly opened planet. Surveyor would follow in their wake, fourteen days behind. A chain of cargo vessels were inbound from Station One, many of them carrying equipment or settlers for Chee, all of them standing on huge pillars of fire as they decelerated to their rendezvous with the ring. The closest was still seven hours away.

The only obstacle of note was the giant bulk of the Titan, which orbited Laredo at a considerable distance for reasons of safety. Titan was full of antimatter destined for Chee and Parkhurst, and even though the antimatter was remarkably stable—flakes of antihydrogen suspended by static electricity inside incredibly small etched silicon shells, all so tiny they flowed like a thick fluid—nevertheless, if things went wrong, the explosion would vaporize a chunk of Laredo’s ring and bring the rest down on the planet below.

It would be a good thing for Surveyor to stay well clear of Titan.

Severin looked at the point of light on the display that represented Titan and wondered about the conversation he’d had with Martinez and his brother, the one where Allodorm’s name had first been raised. Titan was a Meridian Company ship leased long-term by the Exploration Service. The growing settlements on Chee required antimatter to generate power, and as yet had no accelerator ring. Cree Station, with its skyhook that ran cargo to the surface, required power as well.

The wormhole stations at both Chee and Parkhurst, with their colossal mass drivers that kept the wormholes stable, required an enormous output of power.

Since Chee could not as yet generate its own antimatter, it had been decided to ramp up antihydrogen production on Laredo’s ring, fill Titan with the results, and move the whole ship to a distant parking orbit around the newly-settled planet, on the far side of Chee’s largest moon so that even if the unthinkable happened and Titan blew, none of the energetic neutrons and furious gamma rays would reach Chee’s population. When one of Chee’s installations needed antihydrogen, they’d send a shuttle to Titan and collect some. By the time Titan had been depleted, an accelerator ring—a small one, not the vast technological wonder that circled all of Laredo—would have been built in Chee orbit.

Severin wondered if it truly made economic sense to use Titan that way, or whether it was a complex scheme to fill Allodorm’s coffers.

Surveyor finally reached the limit of Laredo’s safety zone, and Severin rotated the ship onto a new heading, his couch sliding lightly within the rings of his acceleration cage.

“We are on our new heading, my lord,” Severin said. “Two-two-zero by zero-zero-one absolute. Mission plan is in the guidance computer.”

“I am in command,” Lord Go called.

“The lord captain is in command,” Severin agreed. He took his hands off the joysticks.

“Engines, fire engines,” the captain said. “Accelerate at two point three gravities.”

Severin felt a kick to his spine and his acceleration couch swung within its cage as the gravities began piling on his chest.

“Accelerating at two point three gravities,” Bhagwati said. “Course two-two-zero by zero-zero-one absolute.”

They would accelerate hard for several hours, then slacken for most of the journey to a single gravity, going to harder accelerations for an hour out of each watch.

Severin looked at the displays and saw Kayenta again, outbound and approaching the wormhole that would take it to Chee. It was a pity that Surveyor wouldn’t travel to Chee, but merely pass through the system on its way to Parkhurst and the possible new wormholes. A pity not only because Severin wouldn’t see Martinez and Terza again, but because he’d probably never find out how the Allodorm thing worked out.

He’d just have to find something else to amuse him for the next few months, and he thought he knew what it was.

He’d been unable to entirely forget the dream he’d had at Rio Hondo, and he’d loaded his personal data foil with articles on puppets, puppeteers, marionettes, automata, shadow puppets, and recordings of performances.

People on long voyages found many ways to occupy their hours. Some gambled, some drank, some drew into themselves. Some concentrated obsessively on their work. Some watched recorded entertainments, some had affairs with other crew members, some played musical instruments. Some worked as hard as they could at making everyone else on the ship miserable.

Perhaps, Severin thought, he would be the first to plan a puppet theater.

Certainly it was a field that seemed to have a lot of room to expand.

5.

“Are you all on virtual?” asked the astronomer Shon-dan. “I’m transmitting the outside cameras on Channel Seventeen.”

“Comm: Channel Seventeen.” Terza’s soft voice came to Martinez’ ears from the nearest acceleration couch.

Martinez was already on the correct channel, his head filled with the stars as viewed from the Kayenta as it passed the final moments of its twenty-day acceleration out of the Laredo system. The virtual cap he wore to project the image onto his visual centers was lighter than the Fleet issue, which required earphones and microphone pickups, and he sensed other differences as well: The depth of field was subtly different, a bit flatter, perhaps because the civilian rig required less precision.

The stars were thrown like a great wash of diamonds across the midnight backdrop, silent and steady and grand. They were the home stars under which Martinez had spent the first half of his life, and his mind naturally sought the familiar, comforting constellations in their well-known places. Laredo’s own star, this far out, was hardly brighter than other bright stars. The software had been instructed to blot out Kayenta’s brilliant tail so as to avoid losing the stars by contrast, and the result was a flickering, disturbing negative blot occupying one part of the display, a void of absolute darkness that seemed to pursue the ship.

Martinez and Terza were in Kayenta’s main lounge, the softly-scented center of the yacht’s social life. Shon-dan, an astronomer from the Imperial University of Zarafan who had come aboard as Marcella’s guest, was about to show the reason why an astronomical observatory had been placed on Chee Station, and why she had spent months journeying here.

“Ten seconds,” Shon-dan said. “Eight. Five.”

Kayenta was traveling too fast for Martinez to see the wormhole station as the ship flashed past, or the wormhole itself, the inverted bowl-of-stars that was their destination. The transition itself was instantaneous, and the star field changed at the same instant.

A vast, lush globe of stars suddenly blazed across Martinez’ perceptions, occupying at least a third of the sky, the stars so packed together they seemed nearly as dense as glittering grains of sand stretched along an ocean shore. Martinez felt himself take an involuntary breath, and he heard Terza’s gasp. The closer Martinez looked, the more stars he saw. There seemed to be vague clouds and structures within the globe, each made up of more and more brilliants, but Martinez couldn’t tell whether the clouds actually existed or were the results of his own mind trying to create order in this vast, burning randomness, seeking the familiar just as it had sought out constellations in Laredo’s sky.

Gazing into the vast star-globe was like drifting deeper and deeper into a endless sea, past complex, ill-defined shoals that on closer inspection were made up of millions of coral structures, while the structures themselves, looked at with greater care, were found to be composed of tiny limestone shells, and the shells themselves, on examination, each held tiny specks of life, a kind of infinite regression that baffled the senses.

“Now you see why we’ve built the observatory.” Shon-dan’s voice, floating into Martinez’ perceptions, was quietly triumphant. “Of all the wormholes in the empire, this one leads to a system that’s closest to the center of a galaxy. This is our best chance to observe how a galactic core is structured. From here we can directly observe the effects on nearby stars of the supermassive black hole at the galaxy’s center.”

With an effort of will, Martinez shifted his attention away from the glowing globe to the rest of the starry envelope that surrounded Kayenta. By comparison with Laredo, the entire sky was packed with stars, with an opalescent strip that marked the galaxy’s disk spiraling out into endless space. The Chee system was actually within the galactic core, though on its periphery, and stars on all sides were near and burning bright. Chee’s own star, Cheemah, shone with a warm yellow light, but other nearby stars equaled its fire.

“The stars here are very dense,” Shon-dan said, “though not as dense as they are further in. The Chee system has seven stars—or maybe eight, we’re not sure—and the orbits are very complex.”

“Do we actually know which galaxy we’re in?” Terza asked.

“No. We’re scanning for Cepheids and other yardsticks that might give us an indication, but so far we haven’t found enough to make certain of anything. We could be anywhere in the universe, of course, and anywhere within a billion years of where we started.”

Martinez heard footfalls enter the room, then the voice of Lord Pa. “Looking at the stars?” he said. “You’ll get tired of them soon enough. Between the galactic core and the other six stars in Chee’s system, there’s no true night on the planet, and we’ve had to install polarizing windows on all our workers’ dormitories just so our people can get some rest. I’ve just stopped looking at the sky, myself—galactic centers are nasty, violent places, and the less we have to do with them, the better.”

“Stars are packed pretty closely here, true enough, my lord.” Shon-dan’s deference to a wealthy Peer did not quite disguise her disagreement. Clearly she was not about to tire of gazing at this sky anytime soon.

“I’m going to sit and play a game of cinhal,” Lord Pa said. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

Martinez returned his attention to the great, glowing galactic core while he heard Lord Pa shuffle to a table, then give it the muted commands to set up a game.

“So far you’re only seeing the light in its visible spectrum,” Shon-dan said. “I’m going to add some other spectra in a moment. There will be some false colors. I’ll try to fix those later.” Martinez heard the Lai-own give a few muted commands, and then the galactic core shifted from a pearly color to a muted amber, and the great sphere was suddenly pierced through by an enormous lance of light, shimmering and alive, a giant pillar that seemed to stretched from the foundations of the universe to its uttermost heaven.

Martinez gave an involuntary cry, and he heard Terza’s echo.

“Yes.” Triumph had again entered Shon-dan’s voice. “That’s the beam of relativistic particles generated by the galaxy’s supermassive black hole. If you look closely, you’ll see it has fine structure—we didn’t expect that, and we’re working on theories of the phenomenon, but so far we don’t have an explanation.”

In his virtual display, Martinez coasted closer to the great burning pillar of energy, and he saw the pillar pulse with light, saw strands of opalescent color weave and shift as they were caught in some vast incomprehensible flow of power, a hypnotic dance of colossal force.

For the next hour, Shon-dan showed Martinez and Terza features within the galactic core, including the four giant stars now in a swift death spiral around the central black hole. “The black hole is feeding now,” he said. “Sometimes the supermassive black holes are actively involved in devouring neighboring stars and sometimes they aren’t. We don’t know why or how they shift from one state to another.”

“Nasty, as I said,” said Lord Pa, from somewhere outside the universe that occupied Martinez’ head. “I have to say that I prefer nature a good deal less chaotic and destructive. I like games with rules. I like comfortable chairs, compound interest, and a guaranteed annual profit. I prefer not to think of some cosmic accident readying itself to jump out of hiding and suck all my comforts right out of the universe.”

“We’re perfectly safe from the black hole, my lord,” Shon-dan said. “We’re nowhere near the danger zone.”

Martinez quietly turned off the virtual display to take a look at Lord Pa. He sat in a Lai-own chair that cradled his breastbone, and was bent over the room’s game board. The light from the display shone up on his face, on the short muzzle and deep red eyes.

Behind Pa, the yellow chesz wood panels, inset with red enjo in abstract designs, glowed in the recessed lights of the lounge. A heavy crystal goblet sat near one hand, filled with Lai-own protein broth.

Comforts, Martinez thought. Guaranteed profit. Right.

“Perhaps we should break for now,” Shon-dan said. He had noticed Martinez leaving the virtual display.

“Thank you,” Terza said. “That was breathtaking. I hope we can do it again.”

“I’d be delighted,” Shon-dan said, rising. She was a Lai-own, with golden eyes, and wore a formal academic uniform of dark brown with several medals of scholastic distinction. She was young for all her honors, and the feathery side-hairs on her head were still a youthful brown.

“We have another twenty-three days to Chee,” she said, “and the stars will be there the entire time.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Martinez said.

He rose from his couch and walked to the bar, where he poured himself a brandy. He idled toward Lord Pa, who was still bent over his game. Martinez scanned the board, spotted at once the move that Lord Pa should make, and began to point it out before he decided not to.

On the twentieth day of the voyage, Kayenta’s passengers were beginning to get on each other’s nerves a little.

The first part of the trip had been as pleasant and social as possible, given that Martinez suspected one of the party of stealing from his family. Marcella, Lord Pa, Martinez, Terza, and Shon-dan had dined together each day. Tingo and other games had been suggested, but interest in gambling waned after it became clear that Terza and Martinez weren’t attracted to high play, and that Shon-dan’s academic salary didn’t allow her to play even for what passed for small change amid Peers.

The conversation during and after meals had ranged far and wide, though Terza had cautioned Martinez about raising the kind of questions he burned to ask, detailed questions about the financial arrangements between the Cree and Meridian companies. “It will sound like an interrogation,” she said.

Martinez confined himself to a few mild queries per day, beginning with broad questions about the progress of the Chee settlements, then going into more detail as the conversation developed. Marcella and Pa seemed pleased enough to talk about their work, and Martinez found himself genuinely interested in the technical details; though Martinez made a point of breaking off when he saw a slight frown on Terza’s face, or felt the soft touch of her hand on his thigh.

Shon-dan talked about astronomical subjects. Martinez told his war stories. Terza avoided the subject of her work at the Ministry, but spoke of High City society, and brought out her harp and played a number of sonatas.

But now, by the twentieth day, the conversations had grown a little listless. Marcella spent much time in her cabin, working on Cree Company business, smoking endless cigarettes, and playing spiky, nerve-jabbing music that rattled her cabin door in its frame. Lord Pa received and sent detailed memoranda to his crews on Cree, and otherwise spent a lot of time puzzling over his game board.

Martinez sent frequent videos to his son—the three months aboard Wi-hun with a small and lively child had been challenging enough for all concerned, so Young Gareth had been left on Laredo with his nursemaid and his doting grandparents. The videos that Martinez received in return were full of excitement, for Lord Martinez had introduced his grandson to his collection of vintage automobiles, and had been roaring around on his private track with Young Gareth as a passenger.

“Gareth’s favorite is the Lodi Turbine Express,” Martinez told Terza. “At his age I liked that one myself, though I liked the Scarlet Messenger better.” And then, at her look, said, “My father hasn’t had an accident yet, you know.”

“I’ll try to be reassured,” Terza said. She had just come from her dressing room, where she’d prepared for bed: Her black hair had been brushed till it glowed and then tied with ribbon, and her face was scrubbed of cosmetic and softly sheened with health. Over her nightgown she wore a bed jacket that crackled with gold brocade.

After Shon-dan’s astronomical exhibition, they’d retired to their suite, glossy light behl wood paneling veined in blood-red, a video screen in a lacy Rakthan frame, a bathtub hacked out of a single block of chocolate-brown marble and which—to avoid gooseflesh on entering—was warmed by hidden heating elements of a vaguely sonic nature.

“My father could have worse hobbies,” Martinez pointed out. “Racing pai-car chariots, say.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll try to keep that in mind, too.”

Twenty days on the small vessel had, perhaps, begun to unravel slightly the serenity that Terza carried with her, the unearthly tranquility that Martinez had come to admire as her greatest accomplishment. He rose from his chair and stood behind her, his big hands working through the crisp silk of her jacket to loosen her shoulder muscles. She sighed and relaxed against him.

“You miss Gareth, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

“So do I.”

They had not spent so much time apart from the boy since the end of the war.

“This has got to be dull for you,” Martinez said. “Maybe we should have left you on Laredo.”

“Dull?” Her tone was amused. “Reviewing contracts in hopes of discovering hidden felonies? Surely not.”

He smiled. “Won’t it be exciting if you actually find one?”

“But I won’t find one. Not in the contracts. Lawyers have been all over the contracts to make sure no hint of impropriety will be found. If there’s anything to be found, it will be in interpretation and practice.”

He hadn’t been able to obtain any of the contracts that the Cree Company had signed with their prime contractor—neither he nor Terza nor Roland were officers of the company. But in his capacity as Lord Inspector, he’d acquired the entire file of the dealings the Meridian Company had with the Fleet, for building Fleet installations on Cree and in Cree orbit. But Martinez hadn’t enough experience to understand the contracts particularly well, and so Terza had been pressed into the job.

“Escalator clauses are always suspect, and the contracts have plenty of them,” Terza said. “On a big job there are always a thousand places to hide illegitimate expenses, and this job is literally as big as a planet. Meridian is allowed to revise the estimates if unexpected conditions cause their own costs to rise, and there are always unexpected conditions. A little to the right, please.”

Martinez obliged. “Surely they can’t jack up their expenses forever,” he said.

“No. In the case of the Fleet contracts, the local Fleet representative has to agree that the rises are justified.”

“According to the records, she almost always did,” Martinez said. “And now she’s received her captaincy and has been posted to the Fourth Fleet, so I won’t be able to ask her any questions.”

Amusement returned to Terza’s voice. “I’m sure that if you saw her, she would of course immediately inform you of any unjustified cost overrides that she’d personally approved. I think you’re better off with the new commander. He won’t be obliged to defend his predecessor’s expenses.” She stretched, raising her arms over her head, torquing her spine left and right. Martinez could feel the muscles flex beneath his fingertips.

He left off his massage as she bent forward, flexing her spine again, pressing her palms to the deep pile carpet. She straightened, sighed, turned to face him.

“Thank you,” she said. She put her arms around him, pillowed her head on his chest. “This could still be a pleasant vacation, you know.”

I’ve been on vacation for three years, he wanted to say. Digging around in old Fleet construction contracts was the most useful thing he’d done in ages.

But he knew what Terza meant. “I’ll try to remember to look at the stars now and again,” he said.

Her arms tightened around him. “I had thought we might make good use of the time.”

Martinez smiled. “I have no objection.”

Terza drew her head back, her dark eyes raised to his. “That’s not entirely what I meant,” she said. “I thought we might give Gareth a brother or sister.”

A rush of sensation took his breath away. Martinez’ marriage had been arranged, not an uncommon phenomenon among Peers—and in Martinez’ case, Roland had arranged the marriage with a crowbar. For all that Martinez had genuinely wanted a child, Young Gareth had been arranged as well. Martinez knew perfectly well that Terza had been lowering herself to marry him—Lord Chen required significant financial help from the Martinez clan at the time—and Martinez had always wondered just what Terza had thought of the long-armed provincial officer she’d been told, on only a few hours’ acquaintance, to marry.

Wondered, but never asked. He never asked questions when he knew the answers might draw him into sadness.

He had watched with increasing pleasure as Terza floated into his life, supported by that quality of serenity that was, perhaps, just a bit too eerily perfect. He had never been completely certain what might happen if Lord Chen, his finances recovered, ordered his daughter to divorce. It was always possible that she would leave her marriage with the same unearthly tranquility with which she’d entered it. He had never known precisely what was going on behind that composed, lovely face.

Until now. A second child was not part of the contract between their families.

He and Terza were writing their own codicil to the contract, right now.

“Of course,” Martinez said, when he got his breath back. “Absolutely. At once, if possible.”

She smiled. “At once isn’t quite an option,” she said. “I’ll have to get the implant removed first. Kayenta’s doctor can do it, or we can wait till we get to Chee.” She kissed his cheek. “Though I’d hate to waste the next twenty-three days.”

Kayenta’s doctor was a sour, elderly Lai-own who had scarcely been seen since the beginning of the journey, when he gave the obligatory lecture about weightlessness, acceleration, and space-sickness. Whatever the quirks of his personality, however, he was presumably competent at basic procedures for interspecies medicine.

“I think you should see the old fellow first thing tomorrow,” Martinez said. “But that doesn’t mean we should waste tonight.”

Her look was direct. “I hadn’t intended to,” she said.

Hours later, before the forenoon watch, Martinez woke from sleep with a start, with a cry frozen on his lips. Terza, her perfect tranquility maintained, slept on, her head pillowed on his chest.

He hadn’t had one of these dreams in at least two months. For a moment, blinking in the darkness of Kayenta’s guest suite, he had seen not Terza’s black hair spread on his chest, but hair of white gold, framing a pale face with blazing emerald eyes.

His heart thundered in his chest. Martinez could hear his own breath rasping in his throat.

There were several reasons why he hadn’t asked what Terza thought of their marriage.

He had his own secrets. It seemed only fair that he allow Terza to keep hers.

6.

The cable of the elevator descended from geostationary orbit, a line that disappeared into the deep green of the planet’s equator like a fishing line fading into the sea. On the approach, what Martinez could see of the elevator itself was a pale gray tower of shaped asteroid and lunar material, the massive counterweight to the cable. The tower terminated in a series of sculpted peaks that looked like battlements, but which were actually a kind of jigsaw mechanism to lock additional weights into place should they be needed.

Ships docked at the elevator terminus at the base of the tower, in zero gravity. Passengers then traveled down a weightless tube to the hub of the residential and commercial areas of the station, where they could shift laterally to either one of two fat rotating wheels of white laminate that contained living quarters for workers, Fleet personnel, Shon-dan’s astronomers, and anyone in transit from Chee to anywhere else.

Martinez thanked Marcella and Lord Pa for the ride on Kayenta. He made a point of offering his thanks before they all left the ship, since he knew that once he transferred to the station, the awesome role of Lord Inspector would descend on him, and a long series of rigid protocols would take place.

Which in fact they did. As soon as Martinez floated out of the docking tube, one white-gloved hand on the guide rope that had been strung from the tube into the bay, he heard the bellow of petty officers calling the honor guard to attention, and the public address system boomed out “Our Thoughts Are Ever Guided by the Praxis,” one of the Fleet’s snappier marching tunes.

The honor guard were all Lai-own Military Constabulary in full dress, with the toes of their shoes tucked under an elastic strap that had been stretched along the deck to keep everyone properly lined up in zero gravity. Standing before them, braced at the salute, was Lieutenant-Captain Lord Ehl Tir-bal, who commanded the station, and his staff.

Lord Ehl was young, and short for a Lai-own—he and Martinez could almost look level into one another’s eyes. Lord Ehl introduced his staff, and then turned to the cadaverous civilian who stood behind the party of officers.

“My lord,” he said, “may I introduce Meridian Company’s chief engineer, Mister Ledo Allodorm.”

“Mister Allodorm,” Martinez said, and nodded.

“An honor to meet you, my lord.” Allodorm’s face, like those of all Daimong, was permanently fixed in the round-eyed, open-mouthed stare that a Terran could read either as surprise or terror or existential anguish. His voice was a lovely tenor that sounded like a pair of trumpets playing in soft harmony, and Martinez could see his soft mouth parts working behind the gray, fixed bony lips as he spoke.

Martinez performed a ritual inspection of the honor guard, after which Martinez, Terza, their servants, and their baggage were loaded into a long, narrow viridian-green vehicle that would carry them to their lodging. Lord Ehl and Allodorm both joined them, and Ehl pointed out the features of the station as, on little puffs of air, the vehicle rose and began its journey down the docking bay.

The post of Chee’s station commander was Lord Ehl’s first major assignment, and his delight in his new command showed. He pointed out the features of the station, which was fresh and glossy and, to Martinez’ mind, rather overdesigned. Every feature, from the cargo loaders to the computer-operated ductwork on the air vents, was of the largest, brightest, most efficient type available.

“The air purifying and circulation systems are custom designed,” Ehl said. “So is the power plant.”

“We didn’t just take a thousand-year-old design off the shelf,” Allodorm said. “Everything on this station was rethought from basics.”

Custom design is very expensive, Martinez thought. “It’s very impressive,” he said. “I’m not used to seeing new stations.”

“The first new station in nine hundred years,” Allodorm said. “And now that the Convocation’s begun opening new systems to expansion, we can expect to see many more.”

“You’ve done all this in a little over two years,” Martinez said. “That’s fast work.”

And awfully fast for such custom work. Perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t custom after all.

How would anyone know? No one had built an orbital station in eons. You could take an old standard design and change a few minor specifications and call it custom work.

All he knew was that, even if the circulation system was custom designed, the air smelled the same as it did on every other station he’d ever been on.

The vehicle jetted down the connecting tube to the hub of the two wheels, where it entered a large elevator and began its descent to the living areas. “You’ll be the first occupant of the Senior Officers’ Quarters,” Ehl said. “There will be a full staff on hand to look after you. Please let one of them—or me—know if anything is unsatisfactory.”

Gravity began to tug with greater insistence at Martinez’ inner ear. “Thank you, lord elcap,” Martinez said. “I’m sure everything will be satisfactory.”

Gravity had been restored by the time the elevator reached the main level of Wheel Number One. The staff of the Senior Officers’ Quarters were lined up by the exit, as if for inspection. Ehl gave an order, and the staff scurried to the vehicle to unload the luggage and to help Terza and Martinez from their seats. The luggage was placed on motorized robot carts, and Martinez and Terza walked followed by the carts and Lord Ehl and the staff and Allodorm.

“My lord,” Allodorm said, “I hope you and Lady Terza will accept the hospitality of the Meridian Company, two nights from now. The company’s executive and engineering staff would be honored to meet you.”

“We’d be delighted,” Martinez said.

Lord Ehl and the Fleet officers on station were dining with him tomorrow night, and he’d already been sent a rather ambitious schedule involving trips to various Fleet installations. He recognized Ehl’s plan well enough, which was to keep him so busy going from place to place, viewing one engineering wonder after another, and receiving toast after toast at banquets, that he would have precious little time to do any actual inspections. There wasn’t necessarily anything sinister in this scheme—it was the sort of thing Martinez might do himself, were he in charge of an installation and saw a Lord Inspector bearing down on him.

Ahead was the bright new corridor, curving only slightly upward, walls that looked as if they were made of pale ceramic, lighting recessed into the tented ceiling. Martinez looked down at the polymerized flooring beneath their feet. It was a dark gray and rubbery, giving slightly under his shoes, the standard flooring for an installation of this type.

“There was some confusion with this flooring, as I recall?” Martinez asked. His review of the Fleet contracts had told him that much.

“Yes, Lord Inspector, there was,” Allodorm said in his beautiful voice. “A consequence of our not rethinking something—we hadn’t worried about anything so basic as station flooring. But when we looked at the standard station flooring we’d ordered, we found that it was inadequate to the stresses of a developing station, the vehicle traffic and weights we’d have to move along it these corridors. We’d have to replace it all within ten years, and of course we couldn’t afford to shut down the station to do that, not with our deadlines. So we had to special order new flooring from Zarafan, and ship it out by high-gee express.”

“That Torminel crew must have knocked years off their lives getting it here,” Ehl said, and made a deliberate, shivering motion of his hands—his hollow-boned species abhorred high gravities.

“Well,” said Martinez, “at least the problem was corrected.”

He tried to sound offhand, and he wondered how he could get underneath the flooring to take a look at it.

The Senior Officers’ Quarters were as overdesigned as the rest of the station, with dark wood paneling and polished brass fittings. Aquaria glowed turquoise along the walls, filled with exotic fish from the planet below, and below the tall ceilings hung chandeliers that looked like ice sculptures. Everything smelled new. Ehl and Allodorm retired to allow their visitors to “recover from the rigors of the journey,” as if traveling forty-three days by private yacht were as taxing as crossing a mountain range on the back of a mule.

That left Terza and Martinez alone in the entrance hall, standing on the wood parquet that formed a map of the empire, with Chee a small disk of green malachite and Zanshaa, the capital, a blood-red garnet.

They looked at each other. “They’ve given us separate bedrooms,” Terza said.

“I noticed.”

“I’ll have Fran move my things into your room, if that’s all right.”

“Please,” Martinez said. “That huge room would be lonely without you.”

Their palace in Zanshaa High City didn’t have bedrooms as large. The Fleet must have paid a pretty penny for these accommodations, but on the other hand, the Fleet wasn’t exactly known for depriving its officers of their comforts.

There was an hour or so before dinner. Martinez had his orderly, Alikhan, find him some casual civilian clothes, and he changed and left his quarters through the kitchen entrance, surprising the cooks who were preparing his meal.

This was a free hour on his schedule. He might as well make use of it.

He walked to one of the personnel elevators, then went to the unfinished wheel. He found an area still under construction, where Torminel workers straddled polycarbon beams just beyond portable barriers, working on pipes and ducts, and the flooring waited on huge spools taller than a Lai-own. Martinez quietly made some measurements, then ventured across the barriers to the point where the flooring dropped away to reveal an expanse of plastic sheeting, followed by open beams and the workers.

If the Torminel noticed Martinez making his measurements, they gave no sign. Martinez finished his task and returned to his quarters.

“Not custom-made, not at all,” Martinez said over dinner. “They’re just laying a second layer of the standard flooring over the first.” He raised a glass and sipped some of the Fleet’s excellent emerald Hy-oso wine. “The Meridian Company’s pocketing the money for all that flooring.”

“I’d suggest not,” Terza said. “I think the flooring exists. That express ship came out here with something. I think the flooring’s been diverted to another project, one owned a hundred percent by the Meridian Company.”

“I wonder how many people know,” Martinez said.

“Quite a few, probably,” Terza said. “Not the work gangs, who I imagine just do what they’re told. You can’t do corruption on this scale without a good many people figuring it out. But I’m sure the company keeps them happy one way or another.”

“Does Lord Ehl know, I wonder?” Martinez asked. “He’d have to be remarkably incurious not to notice what’s happening with the flooring, but perhaps he is incurious.”

Terza gave Martinez a significant look. “I suggest you not ask him,” she said.

Martinez looked at his plate and considered his roast fristigo lying in its sauce of onions and kistip berries. The berries and vegetables were fresh, a delight after his forty-three days in transit—the settlements must have got agriculture under way. “I wish we knew who owns the Meridian Company. But it’s privately held, and the exchanges don’t know because it’s not publicly traded . . .” He let the thought fade away. “As Lord Inspector I could demand the information, but I might not get it, and it’s an indiscreet way of conducting an investigation.”

“Lord Pa must be one of the owners, and very likely the whole Maq-fan clan is involved,” Terza said. “But unless we get access to the confidential records of whatever planet the company’s chartered on, we’re sunk . . .” She looked thoughtful. “You know, I could find out.”

Martinez turned to her. “How?” he said.

“Meridian does business with the Fleet, and law requires them to give the Ministry a list of their principal owners. The names are supposed to remain confidential, but—” She gazed upward into a distant corner of the room. “I’m trying to think who I could ask.”

“Your father,” Martinez pointed out. “He’s on the Fleet Control Board, he should have the authority to get the information.”

Terza shook her head. “He couldn’t do it discreetly. An inquiry from the Control Board is like firing an antimatter missile from orbit.” She smiled. “Or like a command from a Lord Inspector. People would notice.” She gazed up into the corner again for a long moment. “Bernardo, then,” she decided. “He’s got access and is reasonably discreet. But I’ll owe him a big favor.”

“Ten days for the query to get to Zanshaa,” Martinez said. “Another ten days for the answer to return.”

The communication would leap from system to system at the speed of light, but Martinez still felt a burning impatience at the delay.

A smile quirked its way across Terza’s face. “I’ve never seen you work before. Half the time you’re frantic with impatience, and the rest of the time you’re marching around giving orders like a little king. It’s actually sort of fascinating.”

Martinez raised his eyebrows at this description of himself, but said, “I hope you can manage to sustain the fascination a little longer.”

“I think I’ll manage.”

Martinez reached across the corner of the table to take her hand. Terza leaned toward him to kiss his cheek. Her voice came low to his ear. “My doctor once told me that a woman’s at her most fertile in the month following the removal of her implant. I think we’ve proved him right. For the second time.”

He felt his skin prickle with sudden heat as delight flared along his nerves. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Well, no,” Terza said, “I’m not. But I feel the same way I felt last time, and I think experience counts in these things.”

“It definitely should,” Martinez said.

Fecundity, he thought. What more could a man want?

7.

“The harbor looks a little bare,” Martinez said. He sat, awaiting breakfast, beneath an umbrella on the terrace of the Chee Fishing Club, where he had been given an honorary membership, and where he and Terza were staying. No Fleet accommodation on the ground had been judged worthy of a Lord Inspector, and the only deluxe lodging on the planet were at the club—conveniently owned by Martinez’ father, part of a sport-fishing scheme.

“The commercial fishing boats are out, and the shuttles aren’t coming in any longer,” the manager said. He was a Terran, with a beard dyed purple and twined in two thin braids. He wore a jacket with padded shoulders and of many different fabrics, all in bright tropical colors, stitched together in a clashing melee of brilliant pigment. Martinez hadn’t seen anyone else similarly dressed, and he suspected the manager’s style was peculiar to him alone.

Steam rose as the manager freshened Martinez’ coffee. “Without the shuttles, we’ve only a small fishing fleet and a few sport boats,” he said, “though more will come in time. We can build up an enormous fishery here—though we may have to export most of the catch, since everyone here ate nothing but fish for the first year and a half and they’re all sick of it.”

Martinez gazed down a lawn-green slope at three bobbing boats dwarfed by the huge gray concrete quay against which they were moored. Two flew Fishing Club ensigns, and another a private flag, probably that of an official in the Meridian or Chee companies. Across the harbor was the town of Port Vipsania, named after one of Martinez’ sisters, and beyond that, stretching up into the sky, was the cable that ran to geosynchronous orbit and Chee Station.

Port Vipsania, like all the early settlements, was built on the sea, because before the skyhook had gone into operation the previous year, workers and their gear had been brought to the planet in shuttles powered by chemical rockets, shuttles that had landed on the open water and then taxied to a mooring. Supplies, too, had been dropped into the sea in unmanned containers braked with retro-rockets, then towed to shore by workers in boats. The huge resinous containers, opened, also served as temporary shelters and warehouses.

Once the skyhook could bring people and cargo from orbit at much less expense, the shuttles were largely discontinued, though Port Gareth, in the north and as yet unconnected to the expanding rail network, was still supplied by shuttles and containers dropped down from orbit.

A bare three years after the opening of the planet to exploitation, the Chee settlements were growing with incredible speed, fueled by even more incredible amounts of capital. The investment was vast, and as the work had only begun the inflow of capital would have to continue. Lord Mukerji’s work in attracting ceaseless investment was vital, as was the work of many lesser envoys; and of course the work of Lord Martinez himself, raising funds from his own considerable resources.

The resources of a whole planet were more than enough to repay any investment over time, but the scale of the payouts ran in years, and mismanagement and theft were still dangers to the Chee Company. If investor confidence were lost, the company could go bankrupt whether it owned a planet or not . . .

“I’d like to see a fleet of boats on that quay,” Martinez said.

“So would I,” the manager said. “The business would be a lot better.” He grinned. “And after all the trouble building that quay, I’d like to see it in use.”

“Trouble?” Martinez asked.

“They shipped down the wrong king of cement for that pier,” the manager said. “They need De-loq cement, that sets underwater and is immune to salt-water corrosion. But they sent down the ordinary stuff, and a special shipment had to be made from Laredo.”

“What did they do with the other cement?” Martinez asked.

“Condemned,” the manager said. “They couldn’t use it. Ah—here’s your breakfast.”

Martinez’ breakfast arrived, a grilled fish with needle-sharp teeth, a pair of eyes on each end, and with plates of armor expertly peeled back from the flesh. Martinez’ eyes rose from the fish to Port Vipsania, to the rows of white concrete apartments that held the Meridian Company’s workers.

“Pity they couldn’t find a use for it,” he said.

8.

Martinez found that he couldn’t resist the lure of the town his father had named after him. After ten days on Chee, Martinez escaped the endless round of formal banquets and receptions by taking a Fleet coleopter to Port Gareth, north in the temperate zone.

The coleopter carried him over land that was uniform—while the oceans thronged with a staggering variety of fish, life on land was primitive and confined to a few basic types: the only fauna were worms and millipedes, and plants were confined to molds, fungus, and a wide variety of fern, some as tall as a two-storey building.

All of which were going to face stiff competition, as alien plants and animals were being introduced in abundance. Herds of portschen, fristigo, sheep, bison, and cattle had been landed and allowed more or less to run wild. Without any predators to cull their numbers, the herds were growing swiftly.

Vast farms, largely automated, had also been set up in the interior, upriver from the settlements, or along the expanding railroads. Because no one yet knew what would grow, the farms were simply planting everything, far more than the population could conceivably need. If things went reasonably well, the planet could become a grain exporter very quickly and start earning a bit of profit for the Chee Corporation.

Within a couple centuries, it was calculated, the only native plants a person would see would probably be in a museum.

The coleopter bounded over a range of mountains that kept Port Gareth isolated from the rest of the continent, then dropped over a rich plain that showed rivers of gleaming silver curling amid the green fern forest. The coleopter fell toward a green-blue ocean that began to creep over the horizon, and then began to fly over cultivated fields, the sun winking off the clear canopies of the harvesters.

Port Gareth was very possibly outside the mandate of a Lord Inspector, as it contained no Fleet installations, but Martinez had decided that the railroad that would connect the town to the settlements farther south was a matter of state security, and therefore of interest to the Fleet.

The turbine shrouds on the ends of the aircraft’s wings rotated, and the craft began to descend. On the edge of the pad was yet another reception committee.

The coleopter’s wide cargo door rolled open. Martinez took off his headset, thanked the pilot, and stepped out onto the landing pad. The brisk wind tore at his hair. As Alikhan stepped from the coleopter with Martinez’ luggage, the reception committee advanced behind the Lady Mayor, a client of the Martinez family who Martinez vaguely remembered from childhood. She was a Torminel, whose gray and black fur was more suitable to the bracing climate of Port Gareth than to the tropics of Port Vipsania.

In short order, Martinez was introduced to the Mayor’s Council, and the local representatives of the Meridian and Chee companies, and then a familiar figure stepped forward from the long, teardrop-shaped car.

“Remember me, my lord?” the man leered.

Martinez could hardly forget. Ahmet had been a rigger on Corona, Martinez’ first command. He had spent a considerable portion of the commission under arrest or doing punishment duty; and the rest of his time had been occupied with running illegal gambling games, brewing illicit liquor, and performing the occasional bit of vandalism.

“Ahmet,” Martinez said. “You’re out of the Fleet, I see.”

This was only good news for the Fleet.

“I’m a foreman here on the railroad project,” Ahmet said. “When I heard you were coming, I told everyone I knew you, and asked to be part of the welcoming committee.” With one sleeve he buffed the shiny object pinned to his chest. “I still have the Corona medal, as you see. I’ve been assigned as your guide and driver.”

To Martinez, employment of Ahmet in any position of responsibility was proof enough of criminal negligence or worse. But he smiled as stoutly as he could, said “Good to see you,” and was then carried off toward his lodging in the Mayor’s Palace, after which he would endure yet another banquet. He had a healthy respect for himself that some considered conceit, but even so, he was beginning to grow weary of all these meals in his honor.

Still, he was pleased to discover a statue of himself in the main square, looking stern and carrying the Golden Orb. He was less pleased to see a pump jack in the overgrown green park behind the statue, its flywheel spinning brightly in the sun.

“What’s that?” he asked. “Petroleum?”

“Yes,” the Lady Mayor said. “We found it close to the surface here—lucky, otherwise we couldn’t have brought it up with the equipment we’ve got.”

“What do you use it for?”

“Plastics. We’ll have a whole industry running here in a few years.”

“How is the railroad progressing?”

The railroad would eventually connect Port Gareth to the south: Supersonic trains would speed north from the skyhook, bringing migrants and supplies, and carrying away produce and plastic products for export. The rails were being laid from each end toward a common center, and would meet somewhere in the mountains.

“There were some delays last month,” the Lady Mayor said. “But the track’s still ahead of schedule.”

“Delays?” Martinez said. “There’s nothing the Fleet can do to expedite matters, is there?”

“Very kind, but no. It turned out that the early geologists’ reports were incorrect, or maybe just incomplete. The engineers encountered a much harder layer of rock than they’d expected, and it held up the work for some time.”

Martinez decided that though he didn’t know much about geology, he was going to learn.

Next morning, Martinez rose early, took the cup of coffee that his orderly handed him, and called Ahmet.

“I’d like to get up to the railhead,” he said. “Can you do it?”

“Absolutely, my lord.”

“I also don’t want a fuss. I’m tired of delegations. Can we go, just the two of us, with you as my guide?”

Martinez sensed a degree of personal triumph in Ahmet’s reply. “Of course, lord captain! That’s easier than anything!“

The trip to the railhead was on a train bringing out supplies, and Martinez spent the ride in the car reserved for the transport crews. He wore civilian clothes and heavy boots, which he thought disappointed Ahmet, who wanted a fully-dressed military hero to show off to his colleagues. As it was, Martinez had to put up with Ahmet’s loud reminiscences of the Corona and the battle of Hone-bar, which managed to imply that Martinez, under Ahmet’s brilliant direction, had managed to polish off the Naxids in time for breakfast.

“That’s when we swung onto our new heading and dazzled the Naxids with our engine flares, so they couldn’t see our supports,” Ahmet said, and then gave Martinez a confidential wink. “Isn’t that right, my lord?”

“Yes,” Martinez said. And then, peering out the window, “What’s up ahead?”

The track for the supersonic train was necessarily nearly straight and quite level. It approached the mountains on huge ramps, built by equally huge machines and pierced with archways for rivers and future roads. Terraces had been gouged into mountains to provide the necessarily wide roadbed, and tunnels bored through solid rock. The gossamer-seeming bridges that spanned distant valleys were, on closer inspection, built of trusses wider than a bus and cables the thickness of Martinez’ leg. The trains themselves, floating on magnetic fields above the rails, would be equipped with vanes that canceled out their sonic shockwave, but even so, the tunnels had to be lined with baffles and sound suppressors to keep the mountain from being shaken down.

At the railhead, Martinez was treated to a view of the giant drilling machine that bored the tunnel, and the other machines that cleared the rubble, braced the tunnel, and laid the track. The machines were sophisticated enough, and their operators experienced enough, that everyone seemed confident that their tunnel would meet the northbound crews, coming from the other side of the mountain, well ahead of schedule.

“So we can earn that big completion bonus from the Chee Company,” Ahmet grinned. “Isn’t that right, my lord?”

“Good for you,” Martinez said. He waited for a moment alone with Ahmet before he asked the next question.

“Wasn’t there a big delay a month or so ago? Can we stop there on our way back?”

Ahmet gave Martinez a wink. “Let me talk to the engine-driver.”

They took a ride back on a small engine that was shuttling rails to the construction site, and the Lai-own driver was amenable to a brief delay. “Marker 593,” Ahmet told him, and the engine slowed and braked. Ahmet, an electric lantern in his hand, hopped off into the dark tunnel, and Martinez heard a splash.

“Careful, my lord,” Ahmet said. “It’s a bit damp here.”

Martinez lowered himself to the roadbed and followed the bobbing lantern. Upheaval of the mountain range had tipped the geologic strata nearly vertical here. “They called it a pluton, or a laccolith, or something like that,” Ahmet said. “Whatever it is, it’s damn hard. The drill couldn’t get through it. There it is.” He brandished the lantern.

A deep gray stripe lay along the strata, a river of mica flecks gleaming in the lantern like a river of stars. “That’s it?” Martinez asked. He could span the layer with his two arms. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a pluton.

“Yes, my lord. They had to do a redesign of the drill head.”

Couldn’t they blast it? Martinez bit back the question.

Of course they could have blasted, he thought; but explosive wouldn’t have added a hefty enough overcharge. Then Martinez remembered, during the party held in his honor at Rio Hondo, a conversation between Lords Pa and Mukerji. Something about the geologist’s report . . .

Suddenly Martinez wondered if Mukerji—the plunging gambler—had been the Chee Company official responsible for approving the cost overruns. He was president of the company, after all, very possibly he could approve such things.

But Mukerji had never been to Chee—the requests would have had to chase him all over the empire as he went off on his quests for funds. Mukerji had never been to Chee, and wouldn’t have been available to fill most spending requests.

Unless . . . unless Mukerji was part of the conspiracy. Receiving payments from the conspirators in order to relieve his gambling debts.

“Interesting,” Martinez said.

Ahmet’s eyes glittered in the lamplight, the admiration of one thief and confidence man for a job well and professionally done. “Fascinating,” he said, “isn’t it? Geology?”

9.

The question was how to reveal to Eggfont the relationship between Lord Mince and Lady Belledrawers. If Eggfont was told by the valet Cadaver, that would tell Eggfont something about Cadaver that for the present should remain hidden. Yet how else could Eggfont find out in time for the Grand Ball . . .?

A token, Severin thought. A mysterious token, which Eggfont would understand but which would be opaque to anyone else. But introduced by who?

Severin tapped Lady Liao’s ring on the arm of his couch in slow accompaniment to his thoughts. He had to admit that his invention was flagging. It was three hours past midnight in Surveyor’s official twenty-nine-hour day, and Severin was tired. He could call for a cup of coffee from the wardroom, he supposed, but that would mean waking up someone.

Perhaps Severin should put his puppet show aside and find something else to occupy his thoughts. Commanding the ship, for instance.

Surveyor’s control room had the usual stations, for navigation, for controlling the engines, for communications, for the captain and the pilot and the sensor tech. Each station featured a couch balanced carefully in its acceleration cage, and each couch was equipped with a hinged control board that could lock down in front of the occupant.

At the moment, the sensor station was occupied by a very bored Warrant Officer Second Class Chamcha, and the screen that occupied his desultory attention wasn’t tuned to the spectacular starscapes of Chee’s system, but to a game called Mindsprain, which he was losing through inattention. The sensor station had only been crewed because regulations required it, just as regulations required someone at the engine station, at the moment Lily Bhagwati, another at communications—Signaler Trainee Jaye Nkomo—and yet another, qualified to stand watches, in the captain’s couch—Severin himself.

The ship had completed the hour out of each watch dedicated to hard acceleration, and breakfast was still hours away. Severin’s attention drifted vaguely over the smiling pictures of Lord Go’s family that the captain had attached to the command board—the captain was lenient that way, and each station in the control room was decorated with personal items belonging to the various crew who served at that station. Pictures of family, notes from loved ones, paper flowers, jokes, poems, pictures of actors and singers and models, someone pretty to dream about when you were three months away from the nearest ring station.

Severin wished he could put a picture of Lady Liao on the board, as provocative a picture as possible. But then, she was married to a prominent Peer and jurist, and Severin could hardly advertise their relationship that way.

Severin realized that he’d been staring for many minutes at Lord Go’s family, the smiling wife and waving children, proud parents, the pet dog and the stuffed Torminel doll. He raised his head, shook it violently to clear his mind, and scanned the other stations. Nothing seemed to warrant his attention. No alarms sounded, no violent colors flashed on the displays.

He called up Warrant Officer Chamcha’s game onto his own display, saw the comprehensive rate at which Chamcha was losing, and sighed. Perhaps when Chamcha conceded, Severin would challenge Chamcha to a game of hyper-tourney, or something. Anything to keep awake.

While waiting for Chamcha’s position to collapse, he called up the navigation screen. Surveyor, heading straight from Wormhole One to Wormhole Two, was well outside of the normal trade routes that ended at Chee.

No navigational hazards threatened.

Severin looked at Chamcha. Hadn’t he lost yet?

Something flashed on the sensor screens, and Severin looked down at his display, just as the lights and the display itself went off, then on . . .

“Status check!” Severin shouted, as the lights dimmed again, then flashed bright.

Warrant Officer Lily Bhagwati gave a sudden galvanic leap on her acceleration couch. There were shrill panicky highlights in her voice. “Power spike on Main Bus One! Spike on Main Bus Two!”

Severin’s fingers flashed to his display, tried to get the ship’s system display onto his board.

The lights went off, then returned. The image on Severin’s displays twisted, slowed.

How very interesting, he thought distinctly.

“Breaker trip on Main Bus One!” Bhagwati said. “Main engine trip! Emergency power!”

Whatever was happening to the ship was happening too fast for Bhagwati’s reports to keep up. Automatic circuits were responding to protect themselves faster than the Terran crew could possibly act. Severin did catch the words “main engine trip” and had time to register their impact before the all-pervading rumble of the engine ceased, and he began to drift free of his couch.

He reached for his webbing to lash himself in and every light and every display in the room went dark, leaving him in pitch blackness save for the afterimage of his displays slowly fading from his retinas.

“Emergency Circuit One breaker trip!” Bhagwati shouted unnecessarily.

In the ensuing silence, Severin heard the distant whisper of the ventilation slowly fade, like the last sigh of a dying man.

This never happens, he told himself.

And because it never happened, there were no standard procedures to follow. An absolutely cold startup of all ship systems, including the ones that had been mysteriously damaged?

This also never happens, he thought.

“Everyone stay in your cages!” he said. “I don’t want you drifting around in the dark.”

He tapped Lady Liao’s ring on the arm of his couch while he tried to think what to do next. Little flickers of light, like fireflies, indicated here and there where battery-powered flashlights waited in their chargers. These weren’t intended for emergencies, because the emergency lighting wasn’t supposed to fail—rather the lights were intended getting illumination into odd corners of the displays that were undergoing repair.

The flickering lights were inviting. Severin thought he should probably get a flashlight.

“I’m going to get a light,” he said. “Everyone else stand by.”

His fingers released the webbing that he’d never quite fastened down, then he unlocked his display and pushed it above his head, out of the way, a maneuver that also pushed him more deeply into his couch. Now free, he reached out, found one of the struts of his cage, and tugged gently till his head and torso floated free of the cage.

With careful movements, he jackknifed to pull his legs out of the cage, a movement that rolled the cage slightly. He straightened his body and his feet contacted the floor.

He couldn’t push off the floor to approach the flashlights: that would send him the wrong way. Instead he flung the acceleration cage with both hands, a movement that sent the cage spinning on all three axes while he drifted gently to the nearest wall. Severin reached out a hand and snagged the handle on the battery charger.

He became aware that he was breathing hard. Even this little exertion had taxed him.

There was a distant thump. Then another. Severin realized that someone outside the control room was pounding on the heavy shielded door, slowly and with great deliberation.

He released the flashlight from the charger that was designed to hold it at high gee. He turned it on and flashed it over the control room.

Three sets of eyes stared back at him. The others were awaiting his orders.

From outside the command room door, Severin began to hear the muffled sound of screams.

10.

Screams could still be heard faintly through the door.

Severin shone his light on Chamcha long enough for the sensor operator to work his way out of his cage and push across the room toward another flashlight. Then he turned to the problem of the door. He pulled and locked down a handgrip installed for the purpose, then—floating on the end of the handgrip—opened an access panel, removed a light alloy crank, and inserted it into the door mechanism. With one hand on the grip, the flashlight stuck to the wall on an adhesive strip, and a foot braced against the bottom of an instrument panel, Severin began to crank the door open.

The screams had stopped. Severin didn’t know whether to be encouraged by that or not.

By the time Severin had cranked open the heavy door, he was puffing and throwing off beads of sweat that floated like drops of molten gold in the light. The control room crew clustered around him, hanging by fingertips onto cage struts or instrument displays, and their lights were turned to the outside corridor. Severin heard a series of gasps, and the single cry, “Lord captain!”

Severin looked out and saw Lord Go hanging weightless in the flashlight beams. He was wearing turquoise satin pajamas. His skin had turned bright red, and his eyes were hidden amid scarlet swellings. Large blisters were forming on his face and hands. His expression was slack.

Burns, Severin thought. His mind whirled with the idea of a fire so fierce and sudden that it could knock out the ship and burn the captain before a single call for help could be made. But he saw no fire and could smell no burning.

“My lord!” Severin called. With one hand still on the grip, he swung himself toward Lord Go, reached out, and took his captain’s hand. Another crew member, he saw, was hovering motionlessly a short distance down the corridor, and from the golden hair that floated in the absence of gravity he knew it was Lady Maxine Wellstone, the ship’s junior lieutenant.

Severin drew Lord Go toward him by the hand, and his stomach queased at the slippery way the captain’s flesh felt under his fingers—it felt unattached, as if he could peel the skin from Lord Go’s hand like a glove. He tried to brake Lord Go as gently as he could and brought him to a motionless halt just inside the door.

“Bhagwati,” he said. “Tether the lord captain to an acceleration cage or something. Try not to touch him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Nkomo, go find the doctor and bring her here.”

Surveyor’s doctor was no doctor at all, but a Pharmacist First Class. She would have to do.

“Very good, my lord,” Nkomo said. He made an agile dive into the corridor over Severin’s head, and Severin pushed off to Nkomo’s acceleration cage, where Lily Bhagwati was tethering Lord Go to a cage strut with her belt. Severin held himself a short distance from his captain’s face, and tried not to look too closely at the scalded, weeping flesh.

“My lord,” he said, “do you know what happened?”

Bloody eyes moved beneath the swollen lids. Lord Go sounded as if he were trying to talk past a tongue twice its normal size.

“Don’t . . . know,” he said.

“Was there a fire?”

“No . . . fire.” Lord Go gave a long sigh. “Hurts,” he said.

Severin bit his lip. “You’re in pain, my lord?”

“Hurts,” the captain said again.

“The doctor’s on his way.”

“Don’t know,” Lord Go said again, and then fell silent, lids falling on his dull eyes. His breathing was harsh. Severin looked at Bhagwati and saw his own anxiety mirrored in her wide brown eyes.

He had to get the ship working again.

“Right,” he said. “Bhagwati, Chamcha, check the main breakers. We’ve got to get power on.” He remembered the flash of blonde hair in the corridor outside. “I’m going to check on Lieutenant Wellstone.”

He pushed off the floor with his fingers and drifted into the corridor outside. He tried not to look at Wellstone’s burned, tortured face as he touched her neck in search of a pulse.

There was none. When he returned to the control room, he felt a tremor in his hands.

“My lord,” Chamcha said as Severin returned to the command cage. “My lord, it’s radiation.”

Severin’s heart turned over. He turned to Chamcha. “You were monitoring the sensors. Did you see the spectra?”

“I saw spikes, but I didn’t get a clear idea of what was happening before everything blew out.” Chamcha licked his lips. “But it’s got to be radiation, my lord, not a fire. It’s the only explanation.”

Severin felt a cold finger touch his heart. Chamcha was right.

There were several areas on the ship that had heavy radiation shielding. The control room, and also engine control. There were also hardened radiation shelters where the crew could hide in the event of a solar flare, but they were small and crowded, and unless there was a radiation alert, the crew never slept there.

“We’ll look at the recordings once we get power,” Severin said. “Get busy with the breakers.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Radiation, Severin thought. But what kind? And from what? They were alone in space, in transit from one wormhole to another, bypassing the one inhabited planet in the system. There were no other planets nearby, no stations, no other ships.

The electronic failures could be explained in terms of a solar flare. The fast protons had a deadly habit of traveling along electric field lines until they could find something to blow up. But a solar flare so massive that it could knock out all electric systems in a ship the size of Surveyor, plus seriously irradiate any unshielded crew, and do it all in a very few seconds, had to be a solar flare larger than any recorded in history.

A solar flare so huge it might be ripping the atmosphere off Chee right now.

Such a flare, however, seemed very unlikely. Normally under a radiation alert, the crew had plenty of time to get into their cramped shelters. Plus, Surveyor when under way generated an electric field from metallic strips planted along its resinous hull, a field intended to help repel any high-energy charged particles coming their way.

Which left uncharged particles . . .

“My lord!” Bhagwati called. She’d pulled her head out of an access hatch, and her face was angry. “These breakers are slagged. Whatever hit them destroyed them before they could even trip. We can’t just reset them, they have to be replaced.”

“Get replacements, then,” Severin said.

Severin turned as he caught the gleam of a light dancing in the corridor outside. A gray-haired woman floated past the doorway, and reached out one hand to snag the door sill in passing. The woman halted and drew her body into the control room, and Severin recognized Engineer First Class Mojtahed.

“Reporting, my lord,” Mojtahed said. She was a burly, middle-aged, pot-bellied woman with her hair trimmed short and a prominent mole on one cheek. Severin felt relief at the very sight of her: At least one of the two principal engineers had been in the shielded engine control station when Surveyor had been hit.

“What’s the situation?” Severin asked.

“A power spike tripped the engine,” Mojtahed said. “We’ve reset breakers, and replaced some others, and I’ve ordered the engine countdown started. We’re at something like twenty minutes.”

“You’ve got enough power for that?”

“Emergency batteries are good, so far.” She glanced around the darkened control room, and realized that Severin wasn’t in any position to be able to command the ship, and wouldn’t be for a while.

“We can stop the countdown at any point,” she said.

“Hold at one minute, then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Severin looked at her. “How many were in engine control with you?”

A hard sadness settled onto her face. “Minimum engine crew on this watch, my lord. Two.”

That gave Severin at least seven people he knew of who had been in hardened areas of the ship when the radiation hit.

Seven, out of a crew of thirty-four.

Mojtahed hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “May I speak with you privately, my lord?”

“Yes.” Severin turned to Chamcha and Bhagwati, who were still hovering by the access panel. “Bring the breakers,” he said.

The two crewmen made their way out. Severin turned to Mojtahed.

“Yes?” he said.

Mojtahed pushed off from the door and brought herself to a stop a short distance from Severin. She glanced at Lord Go, and her face hardened. She turned to Severin and spoke almost angrily.

“Have you considered that we may have just been attacked?”

“No,” Severin said, though he found himself unsurprised by the question. His thoughts hadn’t yet stretched to that possibility, but they would have reached it in time.

“Gamma rays and fast neutrons,” Mojtahed said. “That’s what we’d get with a missile burst.”

“We saw no signs of a missile incoming,” Severin said. “No missile flares, nothing on radar. And there’s no sign of a fireball.”

“A missile could have been accelerated to relativistic velocities outside the system, then shot through a wormhole at us.”

Severin thought about this. “But why?” Surveyor wasn’t a military ship, or particularly valuable, and it was engaged in crossing a system from one wormhole to another, outside any trade routes. As the target for the opening salvo of a war, Surveyor hardly rated.

“Why,” Mojtahed repeated, “and who.”

Severin’s mind raced. “If it’s an attack, the first thing we need to do is get a message to Chee Station and to the wormhole relay station for passage outside. We’ve got to do that before we light the engine, before we maneuver, before anything. Because if an enemy detects a sign of life, they may finish us off.”

Mojtahed took in a breath, held it for a moment between clenched teeth, then let it out in a big, angry sigh. “If they’re attacking the likes of us, I don’t hold much hope for Chee Station or the wormhole relay station.”

The silence had reached into its third second when Nkomo stuck her head through the door.

“Doctor’s dead, my lord. I looked for her assistant and—” Nkomo hesitated. “He’s no better off than the captain.”

“Thank you,” Severin said, but Nkomo wasn’t done.

“Lieutenant Wellstone’s dead in the corridor just outside, my lord,” she said as she came into the control room. “And I checked in Lieutenant Montcrief’s cabin, and he’s in his rack. He’s alive, but I can’t wake him.”

“Thank you,” Severin said again. He turned to Mojtahed. “Get back to engine control and lock yourself in, just in case we’re hit again. I’ll concentrate on getting communications gear up before anything else.”

“Very good, my lord.” Mojtahed began to push off, then paused. “Could it have been Titan?” she asked. “If Titan blew, we’d get a hell of a lot of radiation.”

Mojtahed’s theory would have explained everything so conveniently that Severin hated to dispose of it.

“Not unless Titan was nearby,” he said, “and it wasn’t. Titan isn’t even in the system yet.”

Mojtahed apparently regretted the loss of her hypothesis as much as Severin. “Too bad, my lord.” she said, and then another idea occurred to her. “Could it be something that happened in nature? We’re close to the core of this galaxy. Could something have blown up in the galactic center and the radiation just reached us?”

“I don’t know,” Severin said. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know.”

Mojtahed pushed off the acceleration cage lightly, with her fingers. Even so, that was enough to cause the cage to roll, and Lord Go, tethered to it, woke with a gasp.

“Hurts!” he cried, and Severin’s nerves gave a leap. He pulled himself closer to his captain.

“Medicine’s on its way, my lord.”

“Hurts!”

Afraid to disturb Lord Go again, Severin let go of the cage and touched the deck with one shoe. He pushed toward a wall, pushed off again, and snagged the door sill.

“We’re going to the pharmacy,” Severin told Nkomo. “Then we’re going to start looking after the crew.”

On Nkomo’s face was a look that combined anxiety and relief. “Yes, my lord,” she said.

Severin looked at the body of Lieutenant Wellstone. “Let’s get her to her cabin,” he said, and he and Nkomo carried the body a short distance down the corridor. They put Wellstone in her rack, then raised the netting at the sides to keep her from floating away.

On their way to the pharmacy, they encountered Bhagwati and Chamcha returning with boxes of replacement electric parts. Severin told them to try to get the comm station working first, then led aft through a bulkhead. The pharmacy was in a shielded area of the ship: If the pharmacist had only been at her duty station instead of asleep in her rack, she would have survived.

Two crew had come to the pharmacy in their agony, but had been unable to open the locked door. One was unconscious now, and the other curled in a ball, whimpering. Severin used his lieutenant’s key to open the pharmacy door and then the medicine locker. He pulled out a med injector, then began looking through the neatly-labeled white plastic boxes slotted into the heavy metal frames that guarded the contents against heavy accelerations. He found Phenyldorphin-Zed, pulled out one of the boxes, and handed it to Nkomo. He took another box, opened it, slotted a vial into the injector, and stuffed the rest of the vials into one of the leg pockets of his coveralls.

Severin switched the med injector on. A tone sounded. Colors flickered on the display. A tiny bubble of air rose in the clear vial, and the injector flashed an analysis of the contents and a range of recommended doses.

The software in the injectors was as idiot-proof as the Exploration Service could manage.

He floated toward the nearest of the two crew, the one that whimpered with each breath, and he anchored his feet against the frame of the pharmacy door, pulled the woman toward him, and gently tipped her chin back with his fingers. He placed the med injector against her neck, waited for the display to signal that he’d placed the injector correctly, and fired a dose straight into her carotid.

The woman’s eyelids fell. The whimpering stopped, and her breathing grew regular. Severin floated to the unconscious recruit and treated him likewise. Then he offered the injector to Nkomo.

“You go to the female recruits’ quarters and then take care of the petty officers. I’ll look after the male recruits, the warrant officers, the lieutenant, and the captain.”

Nkomo looked at the med injector without touching it, her dark eyes wide. “What about doses? What about—?”

“The highest recommended dose,” Severin said. “I’ve already set it on the injector.”

Nkomo didn’t move. “Isn’t that dangerous, my lord? Because these people are so sick, I mean.”

Severin felt a sudden blaze of hatred for Nkomo. Nkomo was going to make him voice a thought that he hated himself for thinking, let alone for speaking out loud. The anger showed in his voice, and it made Nkomo start and stare at him.

“Nkomo,” he said, “does it look to you as if the quality of life for these people is going to improve anytime soon?”

Nkomo was cautious. “Ah—no, my lord.”

“They’re dying,” Severin said. “We can’t do anything about it except try to make them more comfortable. If you give someone an accidental overdose, then as far as I’m concerned, that’s fine. It just means that she won’t have to spend days dying in agony. But use whatever dose you want, I don’t give a damn.”

He held out the injector again. Nkomo hesitated, then took it with fingers that trembled.

“Yes, my lord,” she said, and left very fast.

Severin floated in the corridor shaking with rage and badly wanting to hit something, but he knew that if he punched the wall in this weightless state he’d just start ricocheting around the corridor. It wasn’t Jaye Nkomo’s fault that she was eighteen and had been in the service for less than a year. It wasn’t her fault that an officer had given her an order, an order fraught with all the weight of authority and the regulations and the awesome power of the Praxis, who told her to give massive doses of narcotics to the dying women she’d been laughing with and serving with and sleeping alongside, and that if she killed any of them by accident that was all right. Nothing in Jaye Nkomo’s training had ever prepared her for this.

Nothing in Severin’s training had prepared him for giving such an order, either, and the knowledge made him furious. He went back to the pharmacy, found another med injector, loaded it, and went to the male crew quarters.

The smell of it was unforgettable. It wasn’t quite the smell of burning and wasn’t quite the smell of roasting. It was the smell of ten men dying, and it came with moans and cries. The ones who weren’t crying were listless with the apathy that was a symptom of a heavy dose of radiation. Severin went from one rack to the next and administered the doses of endorphin-analog, and by the time he’d finished, his anger had passed. He only had the energy left for emotions that might be useful. The emotions that would track down the enemy, whoever they were, and somehow—somehow, given that he was in a crippled, unarmed ship with only seven crew—somehow destroy them.

He went to the warrant officers’ cabins, then to that of Lord Barry Montcrief, and then he returned to the control room.

In the control room, the emergency lights were on. More than half the displays were glowing softly. Bhagwati sat at the comm board with the lid of the board raised. She was replacing fuses. Chamcha was bent over the sensor board, a puzzled expression on his face. Both were trying to ignore Lord Go, who was curled into a fetal ball and crying.

Severin floated to the captain and placed the injector against his neck and touched the trigger. Lord Go gave a long, ragged sigh, and his clenched body relaxed.

Severin went to the command cage, took the picture of the captain’s family, the children and wife and parents and stuffed Torminel, and he returned to the captain and put the picture in Lord Go’s hand where he would see it if he ever woke.

“Report, please,” Severin said.

“Replaced breakers in Main Busses One and Two,” Bhagwati said, “but the engine isn’t lit, so we can’t get power from anything but the emergency batteries. Battery power should be enough to send a message, though, so I’m trying to get the comm station up.”

“I’m looking at the spectra from just before we got fried,” Chamcha said. He turned to Severin, his wiry hair floating around his moon face. “There was nothing, and then wham!—x-rays.”

“X-rays?” Severin said. A missile wouldn’t produce x-rays. He kicked off and floated gently toward the sensor station.

“They came in pulses.” Chamcha’s voice was puzzled. “Eight pulses in the first three-quarters of a second, and then the fuses blew and it stopped recording.” He looked at Severin anxiously. “Could someone have hit us with an x-ray laser?”

“Pulses,” Severin repeated, and his heart sank.

This wasn’t an enemy he could fight with a crippled ship and seven crew. Nor was it an enemy he could hope to vanquish were he a Senior Fleet Commander, with a dozen squadrons of warships under his command.

This was an enemy that could wipe out entire civilizations without even noticing them.

“Chamcha,” he said, “what exists in nature that sends out twelve massive bursts of x-rays in one second?”

Chamcha’s eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. Then the eyes widened, and the color drained from his face.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Great Masters help us.”

11.

After replacing a fuse in the navigation station, Severin located the enemy within half an hour. One of the seven, or possibly eight, stars in the large system of which Chee’s star was an element had been catalogued, over eight hundred years ago, as a brown dwarf, a large gaseous body that wasn’t quite large enough to have properly ignited as a star.

That categorization was now demonstrably incorrect, and so was the estimate of the number of stars in the system as a whole. There were not seven, or possibly eight, but rather eight, or possibly nine.

The alleged brown dwarf wasn’t a brown dwarf, but a degenerate star. It had once been much larger, and had a companion star that was larger still, forming between them a binary pair that rotated about each other as they moved in even more complex orbits around the other six, or possibly seven, stars of the greater Chee system.

The companion star, nearing the end of its life, had exploded as a supernova, hurling vast clouds of its outer shell into space. Much of this material had been absorbed by its neighbor, making it larger still. The companion, dying, collapsed into a neutron star, and began a deadly dance with gravity, spiraling closer to its neighbor with every orbit. Eventually the neutron star had fallen close enough to begin stripping the outer layers of hydrogen gas off its attendant, drawing the infalling matter into a disk. As the material drew closer, the enormous magnetic fields of the neutron star drew the material inward, compressing and heating it, eventually transforming the infalling matter into powerful beams of x-rays that shot from the magnetic poles.

The neutron star spiraled in, closer and closer, until its orbit was nearly within its companion’s outer envelope. The period of its orbit was less than three hours. It had so consumed its companion star that the companion was now indistinguishable from a brown dwarf, especially if the star was being observed from far away, hundreds of years ago, by surveyors who were far more interested in habitable planets.

“Right,” Severin said. “Now the question is, what else is the pulsar going to hit?”

He and Chamcha sat side-by-side in the sensor cage. Severin called other displays onto his own, piloting and astrography displays, and an estimate of the angle of the x-ray beam when Surveyor had been hit, which would provide a figure for the tilt of the pulsar’s magnetic pole and a judgment of what other objects the beam might intersect.

The computer simulation of the multi-sun system, with the pulsar now added, ran briefly, then stopped. A tone sounded.

Chee.

“Well, of course,” Severin said. He was surprised by his lack of surprise.

Chee and the eight, or possibly nine, suns of its system weren’t all in the same plane. The pulsar’s course was to galactic north of Chee, and the beam fired from its southern magnetic pole would intersect the planet for all of three seconds, long enough to kill any unshielded animal life-form either in orbit or on the planet’s surface.

Severin compiled the information into as terse a message as he could. “Send to Chee Station Command,” he said, “with copies to Lord Inspector Martinez and Astronomer Shon-dan at the Imperial Observatory.”

“Very good, my lord,” said Nkomo. She had returned to the control room without speaking a word, and had taken her place at the comm board. She looked down at the board. “Comm laser three powering up and—we’ve lost it, my lord.”

Severin turned to stare at her. “Lost it? Lost what?”

Nkomo looked uncertain. “Lost the laser, my lord. It’s . . . malfunctioned somehow.”

“Use another laser.”

The second laser also failed. Severin thought that perhaps the x-ray flux had turned the metal on the ship brittle as glass, and that the metallic semiconductors used to generate the lasers were blowing part under the strain of excitation.

When a third laser died, Severin decided that his theory was confirmed.

“Try a VHF antenna,” Severin said. “Use the emergency channel.”

They were going to get their message to Chee, Severin thought, one way or another, even if he had to build an antenna himself.

12.

When Martinez returned to his lodgings at the Mayor’s Palace, the Lady Mayor herself bustled toward him as he got out of the car.

“I wondered where you had been today, my lord,” she said. She looked in surprise at his muddy boots and informal clothing. “There are a stack of invitations that have come in for you.”

“Rigger Ahmet was showing me the sights,” Martinez said. He turned to Ahmet and winked. “Right, Ahmet?”

Ahmet grinned broadly. “Absolutely, my lord.”

The Lady Mayor hesitated. Martinez smiled at her, and then his sleeve comm chimed.

“Pardon me, my lady.” He answered.

The chameleon weave on his sleeve shimmered to an image of Lord Ehl. The feathery dark hairs on the sides of his head were standing oddly, as if he’d just suffered an electric shock.

“My lord,” Ehl said. “We’ve just received a transmission from Surveyor, and—well—I’d be obliged if you could get back to the station as fast as you can.”

13.

As the coleopter began its descent into Port Vipsania, Martinez looked at Shon-dan in the crystal-clear image of his sleeve display and said, “Do you mean to tell me that despite your entire crew of overpaid astronomers at Chee Station, you failed to detect two beams of deadly energy each over a light-year long?”

Shon-dan gazed at Martinez with wide golden eyes. “My lord,” she said, “we’re cosmologists. We haven’t looked at anything within a hundred light-years of this place.”

Martinez looked balefully at the image of Shon-dan, and then realized he was grinding his teeth. He unclenched and spoke.

“Tell me what’s going to happen, and how long we’ve got.”

“We’ve got nine and a half days, my lord. Then Chee will move into the path of that beam, and—” Shon-dan clacked her peg teeth nervously. “Anyone without proper shielding will, ah, be very much in jeopardy.”

“The atmosphere won’t be shield enough?”

“Not for beams of this intensity.” Shon-dan tried to look hopeful. “We’ve worked out the orbital mechanics, by the way, and this should happen to Chee only once every forty-nine thousand years.”

Which, Martinez thought, explained the relatively primitive life-forms on the surface of the planet as compared with the superabundant life in the sea. Every forty-nine thousand years any complex species on land was wiped out.

Those fern forests were a clue, if anyone had bothered to read it.

“So,” he said, “we’ll have nearly fifty thousand good years if we manage to survive the next ten days.”

The avian’s tone was apologetic. “Ah—there will be problems after the ten days, my lord. Electronics may be destroyed. Food crops may not survive. Metals may turn brittle. And—well, I don’t know what will happen to the station and the elevator. I’ll have to think of that.”

“You do that. I need an estimate of how much shielding people are going to need to hide under.”

“Ah—yes, my lord.”

Martinez ended the transmission. The coleopter was making its final approach to its landing pad. Martinez thought of people rising from shelters to find the world above destroyed—crops burned in the fields, no communication, buildings with metal frames unsafe, transport liable to fall apart, those beautiful bridges on the railroad collapsed because the support cables could no longer carry them.

And possibly Chee Station destroyed. There was plenty of radiation shielding on the station, but it was all on the outer rims of the habitation wheels and in other parts calculated to protect personnel against a solar flare. The x-ray beam would be coming in at an angle, from galactic north, and very little of the station would be safe.

The wheel and other large structures were made of a tough resinous material, and thus wouldn’t be subject to metal fatigue, but even so enough critical components were made of metal that the structure might be in jeopardy. If it came apart under stress, the elevator cable would drop into the atmosphere, where it would burn up, but if the cable dragged enough of the station with it, Chee could be subjected to a dangerous bombardment of large objects burning their way through the atmosphere to strike the surface.

And crashing with the station would be Chee Company stock, to the ruination of his father and family.

Helpless anger burned in his thoughts as the coleopter settled to a landing.

Terza waited by the landing pad with a big Fleet car and a driver. She was wearing her brown Ministry uniform. Martinez walked across the pad and kissed her. Her lips were soft, her eyes hard.

“You’ve heard?” he asked. He had to speak over the sound of the coleopter’s turbines.

“Marcella told me.”

He took her arm and walked with her to the car. “We’ll get you on the first ship out.”

“I can stay,” Terza said. “I’m an administrator, remember, and I’m sure they’ll find an adequate shelter for us.”

They paused by the car. Martinez put a large hand over Terza’s abdomen. “I don’t want x-rays getting anywhere near the next generation of Clan Chen.”

Terza made a face. “I was so looking forward to seeing you in action,” she said. “But I suppose caution may be indicated, since the doctor confirmed just this morning there is a next generation on the way.”

Despite the oppressive weight of his thoughts, a flame of joy kindled in Martinez’ heart, and he kissed her. “What happens next?” he asked. “I’m not quite sure how this pregnancy business works, since I wasn’t around the first time.”

Terza took him by the hand and drew him into the automobile. “It’s going to be very difficult and taxing, I’m afraid.” Her tone was businesslike. “I shall require first-class pampering from you for, oh, several years at least.”

“Starting now?” he said hopefully.

Terza gave a sigh. “I’m afraid not. You’ve got a meeting.”

14.

“We’ve got power in most of the ship,” Severin said. “Communications between engine control and main control have been restored. Enough of the computers have been brought online so that we can do what we need to. The injured are being made as comfortable as possible for the deceleration, and we’re fighting dehydration with intravenous drips. Since we’re uncertain how the ship will respond to a resumption of gee force, we’ll start with a tenth of a gravity, then gradually increase power to one gravity.”

Severin paused for a reply, and when none came, went on.

“When I tried to turn the ship with the maneuvering thrusters, the thruster heads blew out—metal fatigue in the joints won’t let them hold pressure. That means we’re going to have to maneuver with the main engine, which is of course designed to resist hard radiation, so if you feel some unusual accelerations at first, that’s what they’ll be.”

He paused again, then licked his dry lips. “May I have permission to begin deceleration, my lord?”

There was a long pause before a single word came from the captain’s lips, so soft it was almost a sigh.

“Proceed.”

“Very good, my lord.” Severin checked the captain’s intravenous drip, then spun in the air with a flip of his hands and kicked off for the door.

He didn’t know how much of his report the captain had understood, but Severin felt better for having delivered it. Lord Go was a good captain and deserved to know what was happening in his ship, and perhaps Lord Go himself felt better for knowing.

The captain had been returned to his bed prior to the commencement of acceleration. Dehydration was a serious problem with radiation burns and Severin and the other six uninjured crewmen had spent the last few hours giving the surviving victims intravenous drips, an arduous process because they had to learn the technique first, practicing on each other by following the steps in a manual.

Severin had debated with himself over whether the step should be taken at all. Prolonging the lives of the victims was only to extend their suffering without a chance of altering the outcome.

But Severin wanted to be able to look at himself in a mirror. He wanted to be able to tell the families of the victims that he’d done everything he could for them. He didn’t want to have to say, “I let them die without trying to help them.”

He made his way to the control room and worked his way into the command cage, then pulled the display down in front of him and locked it there. Bhagwati, Nkomo, and Chamcha were all strapped into their acceleration couches.

“Engines,” he told Bhagwati, “sound the acceleration warning.”

“Yes, my lord.” The warning clattered through the ship.

“Engines,” Severin said, “prepare to maneuver with the main engine.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bhagwati looked at her board. “Gimbal test successful, my lord. Engine on standby.”

“Course one-five-seven by one-five-seven relative.”

“Course laid into the computer, my lord.”

“Begin maneuvering.”

The thrust was gentle, and Severin heard the engine fire only as a distant rumble that seemed to come up his spine. His couch swung lightly in its cage, and a faint whisper of gravity reached Severin’s inner ear. The engine faded, then fired again. Severin’s cage rattled. His stomach gave a little lurch.

“Come on,” Bhagwati urged. The main engine really wasn’t intended for this kind of maneuvering.

The engine fired again, a more sustained burst. Severin found himself waiting for the sound of something falling.

Nothing fell. The engine fired thrice more, each minor adjustments. There was triumph in Bhagwati’s voice when she announced, “One-five-seven by one-five-seven relative.”

“Commence acceleration at point one gravities.”

The engine lit, a sustained distant rumble, and Severin’s cage swung again. A gentle hand pressed him into his couch.

“Systems check,” Severin ordered, just to make certain nothing had broken.

Nothing had. Severin had no worries for the hull, which was tough resin stiffened with polycarbon beams, but there was still enough metal in the ship to cause him concern. There were metal shelves, metal hinges, metal fittings, and the sick crew lay on mattresses placed on metal racks. Pipes and conduits were secured by metal strips. Valves with metal parts pierced the hull to bring in water or electricity from stations, or to discharge waste.

All Severin needed right now was a hull breach.

Severin added gravity a tenth of a gee at a time until the ship was decelerating at one full gravity. Only once did he hear a crash, when a shelf gave way in the captain’s pantry.

“Systems check,” Severin said.

Nothing was destroyed, nothing breached. Severin began to feel proud of Surveyor. It was a tougher craft than he’d expected.

He would get Surveyor to Laredo, where there would have to be a complete refit. Surveyor was twenty-eight days out from Laredo, so it would take twenty-eight days to reverse the momentum that had built, plus another twenty-eight days to return to port.

By that time all the afflicted crew would be dead. Severin would be conducting funerals every day for many days to come, and in addition, Surveyor would have a front-row seat for what promised to be a first-class planetary catastrophe.

Severin unlocked his display and pushed it up over his head, out of the way. He unwebbed and stepped out of the cage.

“Bhagwati, you have the ship,” he said. “Nkomo, Chamcha, it’s time to make the rounds of the sick and make sure they’re coping under gravity.”

Severin would report to Lord Go that Surveyor had done well under acceleration.

He hoped the captain would be pleased.

15.

“Life is brief, but the Praxis is eternal,” Severin read from the burial service. “Let us all take comfort and security in the wisdom that all that is important is known.” He looked up at Engineer Mojtahed.

“Proceed,” he said.

Mojtahed pressed the override button that blew from the cargo airlock Captain Lord Go Shikimori, Lieutenant Lord Barry Montcrief, and four other crew. Since Surveyor’s engine was blazing a huge radioactive tail during the deceleration, and since the bodies, once out of the airlock, were no longer decelerating, the captain and his crew would be cremated within seconds.

Severin and the four others—two remained on watch—remained at rigid attention until the airlock display stopped blinking. Mojtahed looked through the window on the inner airlock.

“Airlock’s clear, my lord.”

“Close the outer door and repressurize,” Severin said. He turned to the others. “Detail dismissed.” He began to walk away, then stopped. “Mojtahed, Chamcha, please join me for dinner.”

Though Severin was now the acting captain, he hadn’t moved into the captain’s quarters, and didn’t intend to. He brought Mojtahed and Chamcha to the wardroom, where he sat them at the table normally reserved for lieutenants.

The pulsar had killed all of Surveyor’s cooks and the meals had become haphazard, mostly stews of things emptied into the pot from cans, and all cooked by microwave because the metal burners on the galley stove were so brittle they failed if anyone turned them on. Severin and his guests were served by today’s cook, an apprentice from Mojtahed’s engine room department, who fled before any of them had a chance to taste his handiwork. Severin opened a bottle of wine from the wardroom stores. Till now he had tasted the wine only occasionally, because he’d been unable to afford the sort of private stores the other lieutenants were used to, and he didn’t want Lord Barry and Lady Maxine to think he was a leech, drinking from the bottles that would have cost him half a month’s pay apiece.

But now Lord Barry and Lady Maxine were radioactive dust floating in the general direction of Wormhole Two, and Severin had conducted his second mass funeral in two days and wanted a drink.

He had two goblets of wine while the others sipped theirs and ate a few dutiful bites of stew. Then he spoke.

“We’ve done a good job of saving the ship,” he said. “Now I’d like to try to save Chee.”

16.

There was silence at the wardroom table, and then Mojtahed wiped a bit of gravy off her chin and said, “Beg pardon, my lord?”

“I want to save Chee,” Severin said. “And to do that, we have to turn off the pulsar, and I think I know how that can be done.”

There was another moment of silence. Mojtahed and Chamcha exchanged glances.

Mojtahed, the senior surviving petty officer. Chamcha, who was a highly-trained sensor operator trained to detect wormholes, and the closest thing Surveyor had to an actual scientist.

“Very good, my lord,” Mojtahed said.

“Bear with me,” Severin said. He called up the wardroom’s wall display, and put up a simulation of an x-ray pulsar he’d got from An-ray’s Catalogue of Astronomical Objects.

“The x-ray pulse is driven by matter infalling from the accretion disk,” Severin said. “So if we can turn that mechanism off, the x-rays will turn off as well. Unlike an electromagnetic pulsar, an x-ray pulsar can’t work in a vacuum.”

“My lord,” Chamcha ventured, “we’re dealing with something the mass of a star. A pulsar is one of the most dense objects in the universe, and about the deadliest—how can you hope to stop it with our resources?”

“The pulsar’s mass is colossal, yes,” Severin said. “But the accretion disk is nothing but hydrogen gas. So what we do is fire an antimatter missile into the accretion disk, and the antimatter wipes out the inner band of hydrogen.” He grinned at them. “The pulsar’s shut down for a few critical hours, Chee is saved, we all get medals. What do you think?”

Chamcha blinked. Mojtahed’s response was more practical. “We don’t have any antimatter missiles.”

“We’ll use one of the lifeboats. Pack the crew spaces full of antihydrogen if we have to, and sent it out on automatic pilot.”

Chamcha hesitantly raised a hand, as if he was in a classroom.

“Yes?” Severin said.

“I see two problems,” Chamcha said. “First, I don’t think we have nearly enough antimatter . . . ”

“So we’ll jump in the lifeboats and then shoot Surveyor at the pulsar,” Severin said.

“And the other problem,” Chamcha said indomitably, “is that when the antihydrogen hits the accretion disk, it doesn’t just wipe it from existence, it turns into radiation. The radiation directed at the pulsar won’t shut it off, it’ll heat the pulsar up, and the x-ray emissions will radically increase in power. And the radiation directed outward, into the accretion disk, will heat up the accretion disk, so when that falls onto the pulsar, you’ll get another super-powerful burst of x-rays.” Chamcha made a kind of exploding gesture with his hands. “And then Chee gets really fried.”

Severin felt himself mentally rock back on his heels. When the idea had first occurred to him, shaving in his bath that morning, it had seemed like a brilliant strike of lightning, and subsequent consideration had only made it seem better. He rubbed his chin for a moment as he considered.

Mojtahed, who apparently considered the discussion at an end, took a long, relieved drink of wine.

Severin decided he wasn’t done yet. “But between the two big bursts,” he said, “there’s nothing, right? The pulsar will actually turn off.”

A stubborn expression came onto Chamcha’s moon face. “For a short time, yes,” Chamcha said. “But I doubt that it would last more than a few seconds, not even if we threw all Surveyor at it. And if we got the timing wrong, Chee gets cooked.”

“And we don’t get medals,” Mojtahed pronounced.

“A few seconds is all Chee needs,” Severin said. He turned back to the display on the wall, and called up rows of figures and the Structured Mathematics Display. “Before breakfast I sent a message to Astronomer Shon-dan at the Chee Observatory,” he said, “requesting all available information on the pulsar—its mass, its accretion disk, the power of its x-ray beam. The reply just arrived, so let’s do the math.”

The math, when it was done, was discouraging. Even if Surveyor were packed with antihydrogen fuel, it would barely produce a blip in the pulsar’s x-ray yield.

“Sorry, my lord,” Chamcha said. “It was an ingenious idea, but it just didn’t work out.”

Mojtahed finished her stew and rattled the spoon in her bowl. “Yes, my lord. Sorry.” She had clearly dismissed the idea from her mind.

“Titan,” Severin said.

The others looked at him.

“Titan is a very large ship and it’s packed with antimatter and it’s just entered the system,” Severin said. “And Titan’s on lease to the Exploration Service, and Warrant Officer Junot is in command, and I outrank him. So—” He smiled. “Maybe we’d better do the math again.”

17.

There were six hundred people on Chee Station, and eight hundred forty thousand on the planet below. Two cargo ships were docked at the station, and if they discharged all their cargo, they could take perhaps four thousand people, assuming the people were packed closely enough and a sufficient number of new toilets were installed.

Which left in excess of eight hundred thirty-six thousand people in danger on the planet’s surface, and that meant Martinez attended a lot of meetings.

Antiradiation shielding was scavenged from the station, and several of the manufacturing plants on the surface thought they could convert in time and produce some more, but most of the people on the planet were going to have to hide from the pulsar the old-fashioned way, in a deep hole, with a lot of dirt piled on the roof.

There was heavy equipment and construction material to provide enough shelter space for everyone, but the population wasn’t unanimous in their cooperation.

“The railroad workers want to take their families up the line and into the tunnels,” Allodorm told Martinez. “They think they’ll be safer with a mountain on top of them.”

Martinez glared from the window of his office on the station down at the blue-and-green planet below. His own reflection, heavy-browed and scowling, glowered back at him. Chee rotated slowly in the window frame as the station wheeled on its axis.

“They’ll be safer,” Martinez said, “until they try to leave.” He felt his voice rising in frustration. “How are they going to get their families down from the mountain over bridges that are brittle as icicles? On vehicles floating on electromagnets that may explode the second a current runs through them?” He looked at Allodorm and spoke with finality. “The railroad workers go into the bunkers like everyone else.”

“Yes, lord inspector.” Allodorm’s beautiful voice showed no sign of agitation at any point in the crisis. Martinez had to give him credit for that.

And even if he was a thief, Allodorm was working as hard as anyone to shelter Chee’s inhabitants. Martinez had to give him credit for that, too.

“I’ve heard from the Lady Mayor of Port Gareth,” Marcella said from around the cigarette she held fiercely between her teeth. “She has a plan to save the shuttles.”

The shuttles were designed to ferry cargo from low orbit to the surface, and were unable to achieve escape velocity and get far enough from Chee to avoid the pulsar. They would remain on the ground, with most of the other heavy equipment, and be subjected to x-ray bombardment and probably ruined.

Martinez hoped the Chee Company had good insurance.

He left the window and dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. Pneumatics gave an outraged hiss.

“Is the Lady Mayor any kind of aeronautical engineer?” Martinez asked. “Has she actually consulted with the shuttle pilots?”

Marcella smiled. “The answer to the first question is no, and as for the second, I doubt it. She wants to put the shuttles in geosynchronous orbit on the side of Chee away from the pulsar.”

“That won’t work,” Martinez said. “The pulsar beam isn’t coming in along the plane of the ecliptic, it’ll come at an angle from galactic north. Anything in geosynchronous orbit will be fried. In order to get the planet between the shuttles and the beam, they’d have to go into a polar orbit and get the timing exactly right . . . “ He paused for a moment. “Wait a minute, that’s a good idea. Tell the shuttle pilots that they can proceed with the polar orbit, but they’re forbidden to take passengers. It’s too dangerous.”

As the provisional governor had declared a state of emergency, Martinez as the senior Fleet representative had become the absolute ruler of the Chee system. It was as if all the power of the Shaa conquerors had become invested in his person.

If the situation weren’t so desperate, he would be really enjoying himself.

“By the way,” Marcella added, “can you make use of the Kayenta? I’m happy to offer it, though it won’t hold very many refugees.”

“Thank you,” Martinez said. “Let me think about it.”

At another meeting, with Lord Ehl and the captains of the two merchant vessels, there was a discussion of who was going on the ships and who wasn’t.

“We should bring off the representatives of our company,” one of the captains said. “And then paying passengers, of course.”

“You will bring off gravid females,” Martinez said, “and children under the age of fifteen, each of whom will be accompanied by one parent. If there’s any room left, we can discuss allowing slightly older children aboard.”

There probably would be extra room: There weren’t many children on Chee, as the workers had been recruited chiefly from the young and unattached, and settler families hadn’t really started arriving yet.

“My owners will protest!” the captain said.

“That will be their privilege, after this is over.” Martinez turned to Lord Ehl. “You will place members of the Military Constabulary on the ships’ airlock doors and hatches,” he said. “I don’t want unauthorized people sneaking on board.”

“Yes, my lord.” Martinez thought he heard satisfaction in Ehl’s voice.

“No Fleet personnel will leave Chee till this is over,” Martinez said to Ehl later, after the captains had left. “It’s our job to stand between the citizens and danger, and if that means sucking up x-rays, so be it.”

“Er—yes, my lord.” Martinez thought he detected rather less satisfaction in Ehl’s tone than had been there a few moments before.

“I’m going to be the last person off Chee Station,” Martinez said. “You’ll be the next-to-last, so we’ll share an elevator.”

“Yes, my lord.” A question glowed in Ehl’s golden eyes. “We’re not staying in Station Command? It’s shielded.”

“There might be a structural failure of the station. If there isn’t, we’ll be able to get from the ground back to the station easily enough.”

Then Martinez recalled Marcella’s offer of Kayenta. “No, wait,” he said. “You’ll take the last elevator with the control room crew. I’ll see you off, then depart in Kayenta. That way I’ll be able to return to the station once the pulsar’s passed and make certain everything’s in order before you bring a crew back up the elevator.”

The plan pleased him. Last off the station, and first on again. It was a role that was not only proper for the senior officer in a crisis, but would reflect well on him.

It wasn’t as if he minded looking good.

It wasn’t until he left his office for the walk to the grandeur of the Senior Officers’ Quarters that he found out about another problem. A Terran with a wispy blond mustache and a jacket with a gray stripe came up to Martinez as he walked, and introduced himself as Hedgepath, a stockbroker.

“There are brokers on Chee?” Martinez asked.

“Yes,” Hedgepath said, “though most of what I do is invest workers’ pay elsewhere in the empire. But Port Vipsania has its own little stock market, for locally-raised issues. We even have a futures market.”

“Congratulations,” Martinez said.

“Perhaps congratulations aren’t precisely in order.” Hedgepath touched his slight mustache. “There has been an, ah, problem with the market. The futures market in particular. In the hours before the announcement of the threat from the pulsar, there was a lot of selling. Agricultural futures in particular, though there was some selling in industrial and fishery futures as well.”

Martinez found himself nodding. “After word about the pulsar came out, the futures turned worthless.”

“You might understand that my clients have been complaining. And since you now seem to represent the civil authority now as well as the military, I thought I’d pass the complaints to you.” He touched his mustache again. “I couldn’t seem to make an appointment, by the way. I’m sorry I had to stop you on the street.”

Martinez considered this. Hedgepath’s lack of an appointment wasn’t necessarily an element of a deep conspiracy—a lot of people were trying to set meetings with him, and the Lai-own secretary that Lord Ehl had assigned him might well have assigned Hedgepath a low priority.

“I’ll look into that,” Martinez said. “In the meantime, I’d like to give you some names. Ledo Allodorm. Lord Pa Maq-fan. Lady Marcella Zykov.”

Hedgepath seemed surprised only by Marcella’s name. “I can assure your lordship that Lady Marcella hasn’t done any selling that I know of,” Hedgepath said. “But there were sell orders from other Cree Company officials—Her-ryng and Remusat, for two.”

Martinez couldn’t put any faces to the names, though he’d very possibly met them at one or another of the banquets in his honor.

“I’d like you to retain all information of the trades,” Martinez said. “Things are urgent right now, and I won’t be able to deal with this till after the pulsar’s passed. Make sure the data is in hard as well as electronic form.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Can you give me contact information?”

Hedgepath sent his information to Martinez from his sleeve display, and Martinez told him that he would be in touch.

“By the way,” he said. “How’s Chee Company stock doing?”

“It’s worth about a third of what it was worth two days ago.”

Martinez told Terza this over supper. “I’d been starting to think well of Allodorm and Lord Pa,” Terza said. “They’ve been so responsive in the crisis.”

“And all the more responsive for knowing their money’s safe. And of course they’re working to save their own skins, and their company’s assets.”

There was a low chime from Martinez’ sleeve display. He gave a snarl; he’d forgotten to turn it off at dinner.

“Apologies,” he said to Terza, and answered.

The orange eyes of his Lai-own secretary gazed back at him from the display. “I beg your pardon, my lord. A communication has arrived from Lieutenant Severin, logged as personal, confidential, urgent, and immediate.”

Martinez exchanged glances with Terza. Severin wouldn’t use such a bundle of impressive adjectives without reason.

“Send it,” Martinez said.

When Martinez’ display indicated that the message had been downloaded, he broke the connection to his secretary and played the message.

“This is going to be complex,” Severin said, “and I’d be obliged if somewhere along the line you could check my math.”

18.

Severin had considered not telling anyone of his plan to use Titan to shut off the pulsar. He was afraid that someone, frightened of the super-powerful bursts of x-rays that would both precede and follow the pulsar’s brief time of quiet, would refuse him permission to act.

He certainly knew better than to ask his own superiors on Laredo. The Exploration Service was an organization that had been starved of funding for ages: Every time the government was reminded that the Service existed, it had only inspired them to trim the budget still further. The entire institutional culture of the Service was based on not calling attention to itself, and the culture hadn’t changed even though the budget had grown. Throwing away a whole ship full of antihydrogen was calling for attention, and with a vengeance: If Severin approached them with his scheme, their first instinct would refuse to do anything.

Yet it would be hard to carry out the operation secretly. Titan wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, and when its crew took to the lifeboats while the giant ship itself burned for the pulsar at an acceleration that would have killed anyone aboard, someone might well take notice.

So Severin had decided to contact Martinez personally, trusting that the relationship that had developed in the war would continue to function. In the meantime, he had told Titan’s crew to prepare to abandon the ship and to place it under remote control, and also ordered them to keep their orders secret for the present and not to transmit anything but routine messages to Chee or to anywhere else.

Severin didn’t want Titan asking their superiors for advice, either.

He was sleeping in his cabin when Martinez’ reply arrived. Severin was dreaming of warships that were also, secretly, submarines, submarines that fought a lonely covert war in the chill seas of watery planets like Hy-Oso, and he slowly became aware that the insistent chiming he heard wasn’t the sound of sonar, but his sleeve display.

The sleeve display was Severin’s only electronic contact with the universe, because the comm unit in his cabin was still nonfunctional. Severin called for lights, then remembered that fuse hadn’t been replaced either, and groped through the dark cabin for the uniform jacket that had been hung over the back of a chair. He triggered the display, heard from Chamcha that Lord Inspector Martinez had send him a message logged personal, urgent, and confidential, and told Chamcha to send it.

“Permission is tentatively granted to proceed with your project,” Martinez said. His face appeared upside-down in the display, and Severin craned his neck to get a better view.

“I’m ordering complete secrecy on this matter,” Martinez said. “You will censor all communication off Surveyor and order censorship on Titan as well. Absolutely nothing must get out. I’m going to explain Titan’s movements as a maneuver ordered by the Exploration Service high command.”

Severin could only stare at the inverted image.

Martinez’ eyes took on a more confiding glance. “Let’s hope you’re right about all this. I’ll check the math, and enjoy talking with you when it’s all over.”

The orange End Transmission symbol flashed into place on Severin’s sleeve. Thoughtfully, he felt his way across the cabin and turned on the lights manually.

Total secrecy, he thought. Now that was interesting.

Clearly he wasn’t the only one here with a scheme up his sleeve.

19.

“Total secrecy,” Martinez told Shon-dan. “I want this to be strictly between the two of us.”

“Yes, my lord.” The astronomer clacked her peg teeth in thought, then spoke hesitantly. “May I ask your lordship the reason for the secrecy?”

“People might be less than committed to the evacuations and the shelter-building program if they thought the shelters weren’t going to be needed. Even if the math checks, there’s still too much that can go wrong with this scheme, and if the plan blows up, those shelters will be necessary.”

Shon-dan hesitated again. “Very good, my lord.”

“I want you to check these figures,” Martinez said, “and I’ll check them as well. And no one else is to know. Understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Because if anyone else finds out, I’ll know who blabbed, and I’ll throw you into that x-ray beam with my own hands.”

After hearing a series of heartfelt assurances from Shon-dan, Martinez ended the conversation. His dinner lay cold on the table before him. Terza lowered the cup of coffee from her lips and said, “I hope this means I’m not going to have to take that refugee ship.”

Martinez considered this. “No,” he decided, “you’re going aboard.”

Her mouth tightened. “Why?” she asked.

“Because you’re the Chen heir and mother of the next Chen heir,” Martinez said. “And so you will go on board the refugee ship and be gracious and accepting and thoughtful and considerate of the other passengers, because that’s what people expect of the next Lady Chen.”

Terza looked cross. “Damn,” she said.

“Just as I’ll be last off this station,” Martinez said, “and first on, because it’s what people expect of a war hero.”

Reluctant amusement tugged at Terza’s lips. “I haven’t noticed that you find being a hero much of a hardship.”

Martinez sipped his cold coffee. “Well,” he said, “not yet. But when I’m old and mumbling in my rocking chair by the fire, and multitudes of citizens come to me begging to be rescued from some cosmic menace or other, I’m probably going to find it all very inconvenient.”

“No doubt,” Terza said.

Martinez signaled to Alikhan to fill his coffee cup.

“You’ll have to excuse me for the next few hours,” he told Terza. “I have to confirm all of Severin’s calculations.”

Terza rose from her chair. “I’ll start the job of being gracious and accepting, then, and leave you to your work.”

20.

Martinez’ calculations supported those of Severin, and more importantly Shon-dan’s supported them both. Martinez called Ring Command to tell them that Titan and Surveyor would be engaged in a series of maneuvers, and that the sensor operators should be told to disregard them. “Put a memo on the sensor display,” Martinez said. “I don’t want to get a call from Command whenever a new sensor operator goes on watch.”

Then it was back to the endless series of planning meetings. Shelters were being dug with furious efficiency, roofed, and then covered with dirt. The accommodations were primitive, but few conveniences were required by a population that would be in the shelters for less than an hour.

The first of the two refugee ships was sent off, with four thousand aboard, mostly children. The ship would boost far enough away to be safe from the pulsar, and could then return to Chee or continue on to Laredo, depending on whether Chee Station survived or not.

The second ship left two days later. Martinez kissed Terza goodbye at the airlock door, and watched her drift aboard in an elegant swirl of grace and gallantry. Martinez paused for a moment of admiration, and then turned to drift past long lines of refugees patiently waiting to board, each tethered to a safety line as they floated weightless in the great docking space.

Some unused to weightlessness looked green and ill. Martinez sped past them before the inevitable consequences began to manifest themselves.

He made his way to Command, and encountered Lord Ehl leaving. Ehl braced in salute as he drifted past, then recovered in time to snag a handhold on the wall. He made a nervous gesture with his free hand, then stuffed a sheet of paper in a pocket.

“Is something wrong?” Martinez said.

“No,” Ehl began. “Well, yes. There have been some arrests, people who got onto the refugee ship that weren’t supposed to be there. Officials of the shipping company, apparently.” He lifted the paper from his pocket, then returned it. “I have their names, but they’ll have to be checked.”

“Do you need my help?”

“No, my lord, I thank you.”

“Very well. Once you find out for certain who they are, ship them down the skyhook and put them in the deepest dungeon on Chee.”

There were no dungeons on Chee, so far as Martinez knew, but perhaps they’d build one.

From Command, Martinez followed the saga of the stowaways, who were marched off the ship by the military constabulary. The refugee ship was given permission to depart, and the enormous vessel gently backed from the station until it reached a safe enough distance to light its torch.

Martinez said another silent farewell to Terza as the displays showed her ship building speed, then took a covert look at Titan. Titan itself was boosting at nearly twenty gravities toward its rendezvous with the pulsar, a speed that would have killed any crew on board. The icon representing Titan on the sensor displays had a large text box attached to it, saying the ship was engaged in maneuvers. The two lifeboats containing its crew were on their way to their rendezvous with Surveyor, and had been given the cover of a mission to resupply the crippled craft.

If anyone in Command ever bothered to check the ship’s heading and acceleration, they would have had a surprise. But the staff had an emergency on its hands, and much to occupy them; the sensor displays were tuned to the awesome might of the x-ray beam spinning ever closer, and a distant ship that did not call attention to itself was something that floated only on the margins of their attention, like a lily floating in the distant reaches of a pond.

No queries regarding Titan came to Martinez’ attention. One shelter after another was certified, and the population put to rehearsing their evacuation schemes. At the last moment, the Lady Mayor of Port Gareth came up with another plan: She wanted to put much of the population of her town into several of the large containers that had brought goods from orbit, and sink them below the surface of the bay for the duration of the emergency. Martinez, torn between irritation and hilarity, told her that it was too late to change the plans, and she should complete all conventional shelters in her town.

Lord Pa and Allodorm were on the ground, coordinating last-minute emergency and evacuation work. Personnel on Chee Station were sent to the surface, leaving a skeleton crew behind. The two huge rotating wheels were braked to a stop, and the antimatter reactor powered down. Even the emergency lighting was turned off in most of the station to keep surges from following the power cables. Kayenta was readied at the airlock, with Marcella and select Meridian Company personnel aboard, a team that would return to the station with Martinez for a survey before anyone else was allowed to return to the station. One by one, the displays and workspaces at Ring Command were shut down, leaving live only the boards that would be needed to begin the restart.

Martinez, Lord Ehl, and the other crew left the darkened, eerily silent Command room and floated along guide cables to the entrance to the great elevator car. Martinez accepted their salute, wished Ehl luck, and watched them file aboard. The car began its descent, diving smoothly along the cable to its vanishing point in the green landmass below, and then Martinez headed for Kayenta’s berth.

When Kayenta departed the station, it would go into a polar orbit calculated to place the mass of the planet between itself and the pulsar for the critical few seconds, just as the shuttles were doing. Martinez would be able return to the station after less than an hour’s absence.

With all the ventilators shut down, the air was perfumed by the scent of decaying polymers. Empty and without lights, the docks were a monumental, indistinct darkness, vast as space itself. The beam of Martinez’ hand flash vanished in the blackness. At a great distance, Martinez saw the glow that marked Kayenta’s docking port, lit not by station power but by the yacht’s own power supply. Martinez placed his feet carefully against a wall and kicked off, and was pleased to find that he was straight on course for the airlock.

Two figures bulked large by the door, their feet tucked into handles on the wall, their arms reaching for Martinez. As he drifted closer, he saw they were both Torminel. They wore only shorts and vests over their thick gray and black fur, and their huge eyes, adapted for hunting at night, glittered as they tracked Martinez.

Two of Marcella’s survey team, apparently.

Martinez flew into their arms, and they caught him and absorbed his momentum with ease. A furry hand closed on each of his, and placed his hands on handholds by the airlock.

“Thank you,” Martinez said. He tried to shift his left hand, but the Torminel on his left kept it pinned.

The other Torminel, he saw, had a med injector in his free hand.

He barely had time to register alarm before he felt the cool touch of the injector against his neck.

And then he had all the time in the world.

21.

There was silence in the control room, broken only by the sound of his breath, by the pulse that beat a quick march in his chest.

Severin watched from his acceleration cage as Titan flew toward its objective, its engines firing a last series of powerful burns that would inject it into the pulsar’s accretion disk at exactly the right angle.

The colossal gravity of the pulsar would tear the ship to atoms, hurling its cargo of antihydrogen into the spinning disk. A great swath of the disk’s hydrogen would be annihilated in a ferocious burst of gamma rays, energetic neutrons, and pi-mesons. A percentage of these particles would fall into the neutron star and pump up its x-ray emissions. Another percentage would fly outward into the accretion disk, heating the hydrogen there to blazing temperatures so that when it fell into the pulsar, another fierce megaburst of x-rays would blaze forth.

But in between the two ferocious blasts would come eighteen minutes of silence. The mechanism that produced the life-destroying double lance of the pulsar would be shut down.

Or at least it would if Severin’s calculations were correct.

“Fifteen seconds,” Chamcha reported unnecessarily. The seconds were ticking down in a corner of Severin’s display.

Titan was standing on a vast, blazing tail of annihilated matter. Severin was using the cargo ship as a giant torpedo, aimed straight for a deadly enemy.

“Ten seconds,” Chamcha said.

“Oh shut up,” Severin murmured. Chamcha must have more acute ears that Severin thought, because the sensor tech maintained a resolute silence right up till Titan vanished into the larger blip that was the pulsar and its brown companion.

Severin’s attention immediately turned to the pulsar’s rotating x-ray beam, which his display had colored a lurid green. The reaction was immediate: The beam, rotating twelve times per second, blazed into an emerald fury. If the beam hit Chee now, it would strip the planet down to its mantle.

Severin could only hope that the pulsar would switch off when it was supposed to.

And suddenly he thought: The statue!

That’s how he’d work it. Frenella, the gamine, would send Eggfont the little statue of Lord Mince, and that would tip Eggfont to Mince’s relationship with Lady Belledrawers.

He felt a little shiver of delight as he contemplated the perfection of the device. And, as he waited to see whether his plan for Titan would work, he thought about what Eggfont would do next.

22.

There was a faint gray mist that swirled through the air, an insistent electric humming in his ears. His fingers and toes tingled as if he’d rubbed them with sandpaper. A furry animal seemed to have got lodged partway down his throat.

With a convulsive heave of his chest, he tried to expel the object in his throat. He made several attempts before he realized that the animal was in fact his tongue. His mouth was absolutely dry and his tongue scraped painfully against the roof of his mouth.

He closed his mouth and tried to summon saliva. He worked his jaw and throat muscles for several long moments before he managed to produce a little moisture.

Having relieved some of his discomfort, he then he tried to work out where he was. The gray mist had darkened, and the humming sound had largely faded. He could feel nothing, not even air moving against his skin. It was as if he’d been packed in cotton up to his neck.

He touched himself just to assure himself that he was still there. He felt the familiar uniform tunic, the medal of the Golden Orb at his neck, and he bent—knelt?—to feel his legs in their trousers, with the shoes still on his feet. There was something that bobbed and interfered with his right hand, and he took hold of it and realized it was his hand flash, attached to his wrist with an elastic lanyard.

At this point, he came to the realization that he was in free fall. He was in darkness and in free fall and probably he had never left Chee Station; he was floating somewhere in one of its huge overdesigned open spaces.

A jolt of adrenaline hit Martinez then, a sudden hot burning along as his nerves as he remembered the pulsar. If he’d never left the station, then he was still vulnerable to the burning x-rays.

He raised his left forearm before his face and whispered, past his painfully dry tongue and through dry lips.

“Display: show time.”

Yellow numerals flashed onto Martinez’ sleeve, pulsing in time to the speeding of the seconds. Through the gray fog, Martinez tried to fit to the numbers to the chronology of the last days, and with a chill of horror he realized that the pulsar’s beam should have struck nearly five minutes before.

Without willing it, he began patting himself again, as if in search of a wound. Partway through the action he realized its absurdity, but he couldn’t make himself stop until he had assured himself, again, that his parts were all where they were supposed to be.

He didn’t feel as if he’d been blasted through with x-rays. He felt strange, with the gray fog drifting past his eyes and the deep electric hum a distant presence in his ears, but he didn’t feel ill.

He tried to remember what might have happened to put him in this situation. He recalled leaving Command with Lord Ehl and the last of the station crew. He couldn’t remember anything that happened after that.

Then, with a song of relief that chorused in his bones, he remembered Severin. Severin must have succeeded in his effort to switch off the pulsar.

Good old Severin! he thought wildly. Severin had come through! It made Martinez want to sing the “Congratulations” round from Lord Fizz Takes a Holiday.

Instead he wiped his mouth and tried to summon saliva. The yellow seconds ticked by in his sleeve display. He still couldn’t remember how he got here.

He wondered if there had been an accident, but he thought not. An accident would have resulted in more damage, not least to him.

Martinez remembered the hand flash hanging off his wrist, and he reached for it and switched it on, pointing it above his head. The beam vanished into the darkness without encountering anything. He panned the beam down, and at a downward angle the beam found a wall painted a dark gray. Martinez tracked the beam along the wall until he encountered a large sliding cargo door, on which were painted in white the numerals 7-03. Which meant Warehouse Three, Docking Bay Seven.

Bay Seven was where Kayenta had been docked. Apparently he’d got as far as Kayenta’s berth before . . . before what?

Perhaps the yacht had left early and stranded him on the station. But in that case, it seemed odd that Martinez had no memory of it.

The cargo door, Martinez saw, had handholds by it. There wasn’t a lot of point in hanging in midair and waiting for something to happen. Perhaps he ought to get to somewhere where he could make something happen.

He swam awkwardly in midair until he had his back to the cargo door, then he took off a shoe and hurled it as hard as he could in the opposite direction.

Equal and opposite reaction, though unfortunately the masses were unequal. Martinez began drifting very slowly toward the cargo door while pitching backwards in long, slow circles.

Several seconds later, he heard a clang as the shoe hit something on the other side of the cargo bay.

The act of throwing his shoe left him panting and out of breath. Something was clearly wrong with him physically. It was going to take him a while to reach the cargo door, and while he slowly drifted and tumbled he thought about how he had got here, and why he couldn’t remember.

He had been drugged, he thought. He had been drugged and only the fact of his veins being full of narcotics had prevented him from realizing it earlier.

As he tumbled, his hair flying in front of his eyes, he felt a sudden chill as he realized what had happened.

He’d been drugged and left to be killed by the pulsar, but the person who had left him to die hadn’t known that Titan was going to shut off the pulsar, and Martinez had survived.

Which meant that as soon as the person who had left him to die worked out that the x-ray beam hadn’t hit the station, he was going to have to come back and finish the job.

Martinez almost wrenched his neck as his head darted around, staring into the darkness for his attacker. Who could be lurking on the station, and loading his gun or his med injector even now.

The wall rotated closer and Martinez reached out to grab one of the handholds by door 7-03. The drug almost made him miss, but he touched it with his fingertips and that slowed his rotation slightly, so that when he hit the wall and bounced he was able to make another grab for a different handhold and brought himself to a stop.

It occurred to him that his hand flash was very possibly making a target of him, so he turned it off and tried to think where he needed to go next.

The person who had tried to kill him could have hidden easily on the nearly-deserted station, and then leaped from hiding to strike as Martinez moved from the elevator to Kayenta. Wherever the assassin had hidden, though, there was only one place the assassin would be now, and that was in shielded Ring Command, where he’d be safe from the pulsar. Martinez should definitely avoid Ring Command.

The problem was that Ring Command had all he’d need to establish contact with the outside world: control of all communications systems, the antennae, and the power supply to start everything up.

Martinez tried to think where else he might find communication gear, and then sudden light dazzled his eyes.

Across the docking bay, the floodlights at one of the ports had just lit. A ship had docked, and was powering up the airlock through its electrical connection.

Kayenta! Martinez felt his heart give a leap. Kayenta had come to rescue him!

He gathered his legs under him, feet pressed against the wall, ready to spring to the airlock and greet his rescuers the second they came through the door.

And then he hesitated. There was something about the sight of the distant airlock, surrounded by its glowing lights, that caused him unease.

Why? Why was someone trying to kill him?

He hadn’t stopped to think about that before.

He had found out that the Meridian Company had been committing massive fraud. That might be worth killing over, he supposed, though assassination seemed an immoderate response.

It was so uncivilized. They might at least have tried to bribe him first.

Kayenta, in any case, wasn’t a Meridian Company ship; it belonged to the Chee Company, owned principally by the Martinez family. Lady Marcella Zykov, a Chee company executive and a near relation of the Martinez clan, was on board and in charge.

But there were Meridian Company personnel on board, to inspect and help restart the station. Some of them might have been given orders concerning Martinez and his health.

Perhaps, Martinez thought, he shouldn’t jump straight to Kayenta. Perhaps he should first hide, and then see who left the airlock, and if they had large firearms.

He glanced around the huge space and found no place to hide. To his left was a corridor, rather distant, that led to Ring Command—and he didn’t want to go that way, in case an assassin was heading in the other direction. To the right was a huge bulkhead door that led to another cargo bay, but that had been closed and it would require station power to open it.

That left one or another of the warehouse spaces. 7-03 was as good as any.

The cargo door would require a power assist, but each warehouse space also had a personnel hatch, and the hatches were extremely well balanced so that weightless people could use them. Martinez pushed toward it and snagged a handhold. The hatch opened in complete silence. Martinez slipped in feet-first, then drew the hatch partly shut, so that he still had a view of Kayenta’s airlock.

The air in the warehouse was close and has an aromatic scent, something like cardamom. Martinez looked over the interior with his hand flash and saw it was packed with standardized shipping containers, all in bright primary colors, stacked atop one another and strapped down to keep them from drifting. Because the weightless conditions permitted it, the containers were strapped to all six surfaces, including those he might arbitrarily designate as walls and ceiling. There was very little open space in the room, only a straight square tunnel that stretched to the back and that would permit containers to be maneuvered in and out.

No real place to hide, he realized. He should have chosen another storage room.

Martinez was considering a jump to the next warehouse when he heard the airlock doors open and knew it was too late. He peered over the sill of the hatch and strained to see past the glare of the floodlights. There were at least three figures in the airlock, and from their barrel torsos and squat, powerful legs, Martinez knew the first two for Torminel.

An alarm rang in Martinez’ mind. He didn’t like the sight of those Torminel, and even though he couldn’t remember why, he knew very well that he didn’t want to show himself now.

“Lord Inspector?” one of the Torminel called, lisping the words past her fangs. “Lord Inspector, are you there?”

The sound echoed and died away in the vast empty dockyard.

The Torminel turned on bright flashlights and began shining them across the big room. Martinez remembered how well their huge eyes could see in the darkness and shrank from the hatch sill.

“Look!” the other Torminel called. “It’s his shoe!”

While the Torminel were inspecting the mystery of the shoe that was floating by itself in the vast room, Martinez drew the hatch shut and locked it down. Unfortunately the manual lock mechanism could be worked from the outside, but at least it when it began to move it would provide a bit of warning.

What Martinez really needed was a weapon.

He panned along the wall with his hand flash and saw a small locker on the wall. He drifted toward it and opened it.

In the locker were spare light globes, a pad of stick-on labels for shipping containers, a pair of fire extinguishers, pairs of work gloves adapted for different species, large reels of strapping for holding down crates and containers, and tough plastic clamps for tying down the strapping. But what chiefly attracted Martinez’ attention were the two shiny aluminum pry bars, each as long as his leg, that were used to wedge the containers into their proper places. They were octagonal in cross-section until the business end, where they narrowed into flat, slightly curved blades.

Martinez reached for one and drew it from the clips that held it in place. It was lighter than it looked. He held the bar under his arm and drew out a reel of strapping, thinking that perhaps he could use it to tie down the hatch mechanism and keep anyone from opening the door.

He closed the locker and drifted back to the hatch. He studied the closing mechanism and then the reel of tape.

Martinez did his best, tangling the mechanism in a web of tape. The work left him out of breath, and he panted for air while he gripped one of the handholds next to the door. Once he’d caught his breath, he moved to one end of the door, so that he wouldn’t be caught like a fly in a bottle once the door opened. He tucked his feet into the handgrips at the top of the door—the metal chilled his stockinged foot—and he took a few experimental swipes with the pry bar. It cut the air with a particularly nasty hiss. With his feet planted firmly, he could be confident in doing a heartening amount of damage if he needed to.

And then he turned off his hand flash and waited in the darkness.

Time passed, over twenty minutes according to the flashing yellow numerals on his sleeve display. From time to time, he took a swipe with the bar to keep his muscles warm and supple. He was feeling better and thought that the drug had almost worn off.

Martinez had begun to believe that the Torminel had gone elsewhere when he heard a thump on the far side of the wall on which he was standing, followed by a metallic clang on the door. His heart gave a leap and he felt the sizzle of adrenaline along his nerves. He made sure his feet were firmly in the handholds and cocked the pry bar over his right shoulder.

There were another pair of thuds against the door or the warehouse wall. Martinez felt the vibration against his feet. He heard speech but couldn’t make out the words. Then the latching mechanism began to creak open.

And jammed. The tangle of strapping was working.

He heard voices from the other side, more urgent his time, and then there was a kind of slamming noise from the mechanism, and the hatch popped open.

Martinez blinked in the light pouring in from one of the big hand lights. He was suddenly aware of sweat patches all damp under his raised arms, and the fact that his mouth was painfully dry again. He couldn’t understand why there was so much moisture under his arms when there was none in his mouth.

“It’s him,” one of the Torminel said in an urgent whisper. “He did that, with the tape. He’s in there.”

“My lord?” the other called. “Lord Inspector? You can come out. Everything is safe.”

There was a moment in which the Torminel waited for an answer, and then he told his partner, “Hold my legs while I go in.”

Martinez felt a cramp in his feet where they were braced in the handholds. He shifted the pry bar slightly.

The Torminel appeared in the hatch. His back was to Martinez, and he was peering dead ahead, into the long tunnel surrounded on all sides by shipping containers. He had a flash in one hand and a stun baton in the other. A light on the stun baton winked amber.

The blade of the pry bar caught the Torminel in the side of the head and hurled him violently into the hatch coaming. The flash flew from his limp fingers and tumbled, casting wild strobing lights across the expanse of the warehouse. The stun baton tumbled in another direction. A line of irregular crimson blobs flew from the Torminel’s head and resolved themselves as they flew into perfect spherical droplets of blood.

Someone pulled the Torminel out of the hatchway, and then there was a sudden squalling noise that froze Martinez’ blood, and the second Torminel appeared. Her hair stood on end in her rage and her head looked like a giant puffball with huge angry dark eyes and ferocious white fangs. She knew where Martinez was and one hand clutched the sill of the hatch while the other stabbed at Martinez with a stun baton.

Martinez snatched his shod foot out of the handgrip to keep the baton from hitting his leg. He swung the pry bar, but the Torminel managed to cushion the impact with one arm. She flew against the hatch coaming anyway, but bounced back with the stun baton thrust out like a sword blade. Martinez swung again, awkward with only one foot to anchor him.

This time he connected with the Torminel’s head, but the impact jerked his stockinged foot out of the handgrip and sent him spinning slowly toward a side wall. The Torminel drifted limp in the hatchway. Her fur had relaxed and become smooth again.

Martinez hit a bright orange shipping container and bounced. Before he got clear he managed to push wildly with one foot and get himself on a trajectory more or less for the hatchway. His breath rasped in his throat. The pry bar felt slippery in his hands.

Somebody pulled the unconscious Torminel out of the hatchway. Martinez’ heart sank at the knowledge that there was at least one more assassin.

One of the stun batons floated toward him and he snatched at it with one hand, careful to take it by the safe end. He looked at the readouts and saw that the baton was charged and set at maximum.

He looked at the hatch again and he saw that he was going to miss it, drifting past without getting close enough to seize one of the handgrips. For a few seconds Martinez was going to be in plain sight of whoever was on the other side, and then he would have to wait till he hit the far wall and push off again.

His fists clenched around his two weapons. His eyes were fixed on the hatchway as it came closer, at the erratic bouncing light that danced through the opening.

He drifted slowly past and narrowed his eyes against the light. On the other side, Lady Marcella Zykov wrestled with the limp form of one of the Torminel, trying to lash him down to a handgrip with his own belt

Marcella looked at Martinez and with an expression of great annoyance on her face reached into a pocket and came up with a pistol. The pistol was small and made of plastic and red in color.

Martinez threw the stun baton at her. The reaction sent him tumbling slowly backwards. The pistol made a vast noise and Martinez felt the heat of the bullet flying past his chin.

Martinez craned his neck frantically to keep track of what was happening. The recoil of the pistol had pitched Marcella backwards, rotating at much greater speed than Martinez, and as her legs flew up to replace her head, the stun baton struck her on the back of the thigh. There was a crackle and a sudden electric snap of ozone. Marcella gave a cry and spasmed into a foetal ball as her stronger flexors won the battle over her extensors.

Martinez lost track of her as he flew past the hatch. He hit a shipping container and jumped off for the hatch. When he arrived at the hatch, he checked his motion, lined up on the distant form of Marcella tumbling end over end, and launched himself for her, the pry bar poised over his head like a battle axe.

A battle axe wasn’t needed. He caught Marcella easily enough and found that she was frozen into her ball and barely conscious. With some effort, he levered the pistol out of her clenched fist.

Once he had the pistol, he was reasonably certain that he was in possession of the only firearm on Chee Station.

He intended to take full advantage of this position.

23.

“It was panic,” Martinez said. “Marcella saw the message and panicked.”

“That would be the message addressed to me, from my friend Bernardo in the Ministry,” Terza said. The scent of her breakfast coffee floated agreeably on the air. “The message informing me of the principal owners of the Meridian Company, the answer to the query that in the emergency we had forgotten about. Lord Ehl got a look at the contents as it got routed through the communication center at Meridian Command, and he intercepted it.” She lifted the corner of a napkin tucked around a pastry in a silver wire basket, and offered it. “This is the last. Would you like it?”

“Thank you,” said Severin. He took the pastry and waved away a pair of large purple bees that were hovering over the jam. He spread jam and turned to Martinez.

“But why did Lord Ehl intercept the message?”

“Because his name was on it. He owns something like four percent of the company, and his Tir-bal clan owns more. They’re clients of Lord Pa’s Maq-fan clan, which is heavily invested as well.”

Terza sipped her coffee. “Every time Lord Ehl approved an overrun on Chee Station, his net worth grew that much larger.”

Severin chewed his pastry as he gazed through the oak alley at the distant Rio Hondo. The rising sun had outlined each leaf in silver. The shadows beneath the oaks were very dark. Tart and sweet flavors exploded on his tongue.

“I suppose Marcella’s name was on the list, too,” he said. “That’s why she panicked.”

“Marcella had two percent,” Martinez said.

“Two percent hardly seems worth killing someone over,” Terza said.

Martinez looked at her. “Marcella’s very focused on outcomes,” he said. “Processes don’t matter as much, they’re just a means to an end. If there’s a reward, she grabs it; if there’s an obstacle, she removes it. We should have taken note of the efficient way she cleaned Lord Mukerji of his money.

“And once she was caught,” he added, “once I got her gun and had her tied up with strapping, she began working toward a new outcome, which was a lessening of her sentence. She confessed to everything and blamed it all on Pa and Lord Ehl. So that once I’d restarted the station, and had Lord Ehl and a company of military constables come up from the surface, I was able to put Lord Ehl under arrest as soon as he stepped out of the elevator doors.”

“So far,” Severin said, “our players have four percent and two percent. Who really owns the Meridian Company?

“Allodorm had ten percent,” Terza said. “He got it when the Meridian Company bought out his engineering company. But the largest owner was Cassilda’s father, Lord Zykov, followed by other members of the Zykov clan.”

Surprise murmured through Severin’s veins. “Must be interesting to be robbed by your in-laws,” he said.

“Not just robbed,” Terza said. “Lord Zykov’s plan was to bankrupt the Chee Company, then buy the remnants with its own money.”

Severin turned his head at the sound of footsteps coming out of the house. Lord Roland Martinez strolled toward them, a wry smile on his lips. He was dressed casually, in a blousy white cotton shirt and faded red baggy drawstring trousers.

“How’s Cassilda?” Terza asked.

“The doctor says she won’t deliver for a few hours yet.”

Cassilda had gone into labor the previous evening.

Roland leaned over his brother’s shoulder to peer into the silver wire basket. “Didn’t you leave me any breakfast?”

“We didn’t know you’d be coming,” Terza said. “You can call the kitchen.”

“I don’t have a comm unit on me,” Roland said. “Gare, could you call the kitchens and get me some pastry and a pair of shirred duck eggs?” He sat heavily in one of the whitewashed metal chairs.

Martinez, looking resigned, made the call on his sleeve comm. Severin finished his pastry and freshened his coffee from the silver pot. He looked at Roland.

“Yes?” Roland said.

“Beg pardon?”

“You had a question on your face.”

“I—” Severin started, and then decided to take a more tactful approach. “It must be hard for you, with Lady Cassilda about to give birth and her father sitting on a pile of money he’s stolen from you.”

Roland grinned. “No. That makes it easier, actually.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, then looked at Severin.

“It’s very simple,” he said. “I don’t know if Lord Zykov gives a damn about Marcella or not, but if he ever wants to see his daughter again, or see his grandchild ever, he’ll do exactly what we tell him.”

Severin felt his mouth hanging open, and closed it. “I see,” he said.

“You understand,” Roland said, “Allodorm and Lord Pa got too greedy—they didn’t just cheat us, they cheated the Fleet. And that’s not civil or corporate law, that’s a violation of the Praxis, and the penalties are torture and death. Cassilda had some stock in the Meridian Company, and we can make a case against her.”

Can you do that? Severin wondered.

Apparently he could.

“Any case is amazingly easy,” Roland went on. “There’s scads of information—we had inspectors on the ground, and other informers as well, but they all reported to Marcella, and she sat on the information and told the others that adjustments were being made.”

“Plus, of course, the conspirators are all informing on one another,” Martinez said.

“So in return for not laying the information before the Legion of Diligence,” Roland said, “we’re asking for half of Lord Zykov’s interest in the company, plus all of Lord Pa’s, and Allodorm’s, and Marcella’s. Lord Pa will pay us a large fine, enough to knock him flat for some time. Marcella and Allodorm will be locked up until we’re reasonably certain we’ve wrung out of them every zenith they possess.”

“And the first thing I did,” Martinez said, “was procure Lord Ehl’s resignation from the Fleet.”

Roland shrugged, as if this was of no concern. “We’ll have his shares, too, of course.” He adopted a contemplative look. “I’m thinking of having Lord Zykov pass over his elder daughter and make Cassilda’s child his heir. So everything comes to us in the end.”

Martinez looked at his brother with dissatisfaction showing in his narrowed eyes. “Speaking as the one who got shot at,” he said, “I’m not sure I’m happy that everyone gets off with just fines and spankings. I wonder what you’d have done if Marcella had actually succeeded in killing me.”

Again Severin felt a line of tension between the two brothers, and thought again that the two might not like each other very much.

Roland very coolly raised his coffee to his lips. “I suppose that after Marcella was good and bankrupt,” he said, “she might have had an accident.”

Martinez looked at Roland for a moment, then shrugged. Terza reached over and patted his hand.

“Thanks to Commander Severin,” she said, “we won’t have to deal with that contingency.”

“Not so much me,” Severin said, “as—” Then, “Commander?”

A tight little smile played across Roland’s lips. “You will not find us ungrateful, my lord. We’ve spoken to the higher echelon of the Exploration Service here, and explained in some detail our considerable admiration for you, and my understanding is that you’ll be promoted and given Surveyor once it’s out of dock.”

Severin goggled at him. You can do that? he wondered.

“In addition,” Martinez said, “my father is granting you several sections of prime Chee real estate. You should have a very rich estate to retire to when you leave the Service.”

“And I believe there will be a substantial cash reward from the Chee Company,” Roland said. “Though I understand we’ll have to get your superiors’ permission.”

Severin’s mind whirled. “But,” he said, “I didn’t really do that much.”

“Other than save the Chee Company’s entire investment?” Roland smiled.

“I shut off the pulsar, yes, but the reason that Captain Martinez hasn’t joined the Great Masters is that he insisted that what I did with Titan remain secret. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

Martinez grinned. “I had to protect my investments,” he said.

Severin looked at him. “My lord?”

“I took the money I won from Lord Mukerji and bought every futures contract on Chee from the poor fools Allodorm and Pa sold them to,” Martinez said. “Some will be worthless, no doubt, but I believe I’m now a rich man.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled out at the world. “I’ve never actually had money of my own before,” he said. “It’s all come from Terza or my father. I wonder what I’ll do with it?”

“The possibilities are staggering,” Terza murmured.

Martinez looked at his brother. “And of course some of the fines from the conspirators will go to reimburse the investors who were cheated.”

Roland was annoyed. “They were gambling, really. It’s not as if they can complain. It was the futures market, for all’s sake.”

“Roland.” The voice was firm.

Roland flapped his hands. “Very well. If you insist. But if you go on this way, you’re going to make me wish Marcella were a better shot.”

Martinez smiled. “I seek only perfect justice for the entire universe.”

“Ah!” Roland said happily. “My shirred eggs!”

A smiling white-haired servant brought Roland his breakfast and another basket of pastry. Terza looked at Severin from over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Will you be seeing Lady Liao while Surveyor’s in dock?” she asked.

Severin darted a glance to the opal ring on his finger. Does everyone know? he wondered.

“I’ve sent her a message,” he said. “But I imagine a lot will depend on her schedule.” And her husband’s.

“Any plans for the meantime?” Terza asked.

“Well,” Severin said, “I’m thinking of building a puppet theater.”

There was a moment of silence broken only by the calls of morning birds.

“That’s original,” Martinez murmured.

“Do you think so?” Severin asked. “Let me tell you about it.”

And, as the long morning stretched before them, he did.

© 2004 and 2012 by Walter Jon Williams. Originally published in Between Worlds, edited by Robert Silverberg. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Walter Jon Williams is an award-winning author who has been on the best-seller lists of the New York Times and the Times of London. He is the author of twenty-seven novels and three collections of short fiction. His first novel to attract serious public attention was Hardwired (1986), described by Roger Zelazny as “a tough, sleek juggernaut of a story, punctuated by strobe-light movements, coursing to the wail of jets and the twang of steel guitars.” In 2001 he won a Nebula Award for his novelette, “Daddy’s World,” and won again in 2005 for “The Green Leopard Plague.” He has also written for George RR Martin’s Wild Cards project. Walter has written for comics, the screen, and for television, and has worked in the gaming field. He was a writer for the alternate reality game Last Call Poker, and scripted the mega-hit Spore. His latest work is The Fourth Wall, a near-future thriller set in the world of alternate reality gaming.

EXCERPT: In the Night Wood (John Joseph Adams Books)

Dale Bailey | 3246 words

American Charles Hayden came to England to forget the past. Failed father, failed husband, and failed scholar, Charles hopes to put his life back together with a biography of Caedmon Hollow, the long-dead author of a legendary Victorian children’s book, In the Night Wood. But soon after settling into Hollow’s remote Yorkshire home, Charles learns that the past isn’t dead.

In the neighboring village, Charles meets a woman he might have loved, a child who could have been his own lost daughter, and the ghost of a self he thought he’d put behind him. And in the primeval forest surrounding Caedmon Hollow’s ancestral home, an ancient power is stirring. The horned figure of a long-forgotten king haunts Charles Hayden’s dreams. And every morning the fringe of darkling trees presses closer. Soon enough, Charles will venture into the night wood. Soon enough he’ll learn that the darkness under the trees is but a shadow of the darkness that waits inside us all.

Available October 9, 2018 from John Joseph Adams Books (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt).

1

They hadn’t spoken for almost an hour—not since Harrogate, where he’d had some trouble with a roundabout and the solicitor’s car had vanished, eclipsed by traffic—when Charles Hayden caught his first glimpse of the Eorl Wood.

In the days prior to their departure from their home in Ransom, North Carolina, with its attendant griefs and sorrows Charles had fooled himself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay after all—that the quiet stranger who shared his table and his bed was the outward face of a new Erin, a sadder, wiser Erin, tempered, but no longer paralyzed, by knowledge of the myriad ways the world could betray you. He had fooled himself into believing that with enough time and effort, with enough patience, he might yet reach the core of warmth inside her. He had supposed that the core of warmth was still there.

Last night over dinner at the hotel, this pleasant illusion had crumbled around Charles. And over breakfast this morning with the solicitor—her name was Merrow, Ann Merrow—Erin had been pensive and morose. During the chaos at the roundabout, as Charles had whizzed around the circle in futility for the second time, she’d roused herself long enough to point at one of the branching exits.

“I think it’s that one,” she’d said, and Charles had wrenched the wheel hard to the right, whipping the car across three lanes of traffic. He caught a flash of the sign mounted high above. Ripon and Points North, it read. Then a lorry blew by on his left with an aggrieved blast of the horn, and he’d yanked his attention back to the road. There had been a time when a stunt like that would have elicited an impassioned orgy of outrage from Erin. Now, however, she barely blinked. Charles supposed she’d just as soon the truck had crushed the car like an aluminum can. If you got right down to it, he supposed he wouldn’t have much minded it himself.

Ahead, traffic cleared and the solicitor’s dusty blue Saab came into view. “Sorry,” Charles said but Erin hadn’t replied. The last vestiges of Harrogate fell away in the rearview mirror and the alien shire terrain drew up around them, a rugged patchwork of hand-stacked stone walls, rolling pasturage, and narrow-windowed eighteenth-century farmhouses, the forbidding line of the moors looming always up behind them like the shoulders of sleeping giants, blanketed with earth.

It was a bleak prospect even on this clear April morning, and Charles found himself thinking of the Brontë children, tubercular and strange, more than halfway mired in fantasies wrested by sheer force of desperation from this unrelenting landscape, the remote Haworth parsonage and the churchyard before it, overcrowded with the dead. The present seemed to lay lightly on the land here, as though the narrow span of gray pavement where the solicitor’s car hove momentarily into view at the crest of each new ridge, might simply melt away, like a dusting of fresh snow, unveiling the bones of an older, sterner world.

That thought put him in mind of Caedmon Hollow and his own strange fantasy wrested from this same hostile terrain all those years ago—more than a century and a half now, Caedmon Hollow might almost have known the Brontës—and Charles felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of Hollow House awaiting them. In that moment of anticipation, he could almost forget Erin’s brooding silence, the trouble with Syrah Nagle, and—and the rest of it. He could almost forget it all.

Ahead, Merrow turned into a still more narrow road. It ran downhill between retaining walls of stacked stone for maybe half a mile. Then the road broadened, the walls drew away, and suddenly they were in civilization again, or what passed for it out here, anyway.

Suddenly they were in Yarrow. The village was old and steep, crowded into a rift between the hills. Merchants hugged the high street—a newsagent with a white cat drowsing in the front window; a pub, its lot crowded with the noon rush; a hardware store; and a florist (Petal Pushers, Charles noted with a humorless snort). At the far end of town before a crumbling stone house, Charles saw a sign reading Yarrow Historical Society. He made a mental note to come back and have a look at the place. They weren’t likely to have anything useful, but you could never say for sure.

He glanced at Erin, but if the change in scenery had made any impression on her, it didn’t show. Merrow made two quick turns, each road more narrow than the last. If they met an oncoming car, they would have to pull over to let it pass. Charles had the fleeting thought that in leaving Yarrow they had passed through the last outpost of the modern world.

The terrain here was sharper, more unwelcoming still, the hills rising steeply on either side. The pavement wound through rugged outcroppings of stone and patches of wiry brush. Charles cracked the window and let the slipstream flow in, freighted with the scent of heather and flowers just coming into bloom, and cooler than it would have been back home.

Except this was home now, wasn’t it? Home and a fresh start. He glanced at Erin. She seemed to have dozed off. She’d tilted her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes, and for a single heartbreaking moment, as the midmorning sunlight etched silver the line of her profile, she looked like the girl he had married nearly a decade ago. Then the car dipped into shadow, and the sorrow around her eyes and in the set of her lips sprang suddenly into relief.

Charles frowned and looked away, the thought echoing inside his head: a fresh start. God knows they needed it. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, he studied the road, ascending a sharp hill. The solicitor’s car hung at the crest a moment, then plunged out of sight. Yew trees clustered against the sky, their tips just visible above the ridgeline.

Anticipation flickered in him once again.

Beside him, Erin opened her eyes. “We there?” she murmured.

And then they topped the ridge. The valley bottomed out endlessly before them, and suddenly the Eorl Wood was there, bigger than Charles had expected, and more forbidding. The trees began halfway down the slope, like the wall of an ancient fortress, a palisade of enormous alder and elm and gnarled oak. The wood spread as far as the eye could see—lime, olive, jade, a thousand shades of green, fading here and there into glossy emerald patches of darkness.

When he saw it, Charles’s first thought was that he understood—really understood—the environment that had shaped the nightscape of Caedmon Hollow’s mystifying book. His second thought—coming fast on the heels of the first one—was that the wood was collectively alive, a single vast organism spilling out across the valley in wild profusion, bigger than the eye could comprehend, improbably, impossibly bigger, that it was sentient, watchful, and that somehow—

—how?—

—it had been awaiting them.

“Jesus,” Erin whispered, and it was all Charles could do—the impulse took an active effort of will to resist—not to step hard on the brake and wrench the car back toward Yarrow.

Too late to turn back now.

Momentum seized them, the gray pavement blurring as the car gathered speed. At the base of the decline, Merrow signaled left and disappeared into the trees. If Charles hadn’t seen it happen, he would have missed the turnoff entirely.

He almost missed it anyway. He braked hard—the road ended in a turnaround maybe two dozen yards past the entrance—the force of the deceleration pressing him into the upholstery. He swung the car around and squared up to the entrance.

It gaped under the trees, a tunnel hewn into the flesh of the wood itself, flanked by stone columns shrouded in vines. Engraved words, eroded almost flush with the stone, were visible on the pillar to the right: Hollow House, and below that, 1848. There had been a gate there once, but no more.

A taillight flashed deep in all that emerald gloaming. Charles reached out for Erin’s hand. “We’re here.”

“So we are.” She gave him a forced smile in return, but her fingers remained dead in his grasp.

Charles sighed. He turned on the headlights, touched the gas, and nosed the car between the columns. The wood took them. When the sound of their engine died away under the trees, no evidence of their passage remained.

They might never have come that way at all.

2

An oppression of trees drew up around the car, and a doomed sense of claustrophobia seized Erin Hayden. For a moment it was all too much—the dark closing down upon them and the tires whispering their incessant tidings of arrival on macadam crumbling with time and carpeted with dead leaves.

Most of all it was the ancient oaks pressing close to the road, like old men, lichen bearded and a little deaf, stooping close to listen. She imagined them straightening up as the car slipped by, their hoary heads together to pass the news, a stir of leaf and branch rippling ever outward before them.

There was something disturbing about the idea, something watchful and abiding about the gloom under the trees. It was too much, too close.

She glanced at Charles, his face masked in streamers of light and shadow. He looked tired, haggard with something more than jet lag. She almost reached out to him, maybe would have, but an overhanging branch slapped at the windshield, startling her, and she turned away instead.

That was when she saw the child: a little girl clad in a simple white dress, maybe kindergarten age—

—Lissa’s age—

—or maybe a year older. She stood on the leaf-scattered shoulder of the road, staring toward them, so close she might have reached out and touched the car as it sped past.

“Charles?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you—” She broke off. She did not want to say it. It had been nothing, a trick of the eye, a flash of sunlight through the forest canopy or a patch of fog breathing up from the damp soil. We see what we want to see, her therapist had told her. As if that helped.

“Did I what?” Charles said.

“Nothing,” she said.

She was tired of seeing things.

For months after the funeral, back home in Ransom, she’d caught glimpses of Lissa everywhere, through a scrim of raindrops on the windshield as she wheeled by the kids at the bus stop or in the baleful fluorescent glare of the grocery store, just turning the far corner of an aisle. Something familiar in the set of the mouth or the flash of shoulder-length hair.

Then she’d blink and see that Lissa wasn’t there after all. The girl at the bus stop would shift the angle of her gaze and her face would fall into unfamiliar lineaments. Meeting the grocery store specter afresh among the frozen foods, Erin would see that she was younger than she had thought, that she had dark hair and a squared-off jaw, that she looked nothing like Lissa at all.

She’d mentioned it to Charles once and he’d flinched like she’d struck him. After that she’d never brought it up to him again.

Until last night.

Last night, over dinner at the hotel, she’d seen Lissa once again.

One moment Erin had been sitting at the table, jet lagged and silent, spooning an indifferent soup into her mouth. The next, she’d glanced up, reaching for her water glass, and the girl had been there: Lissa, a slim blonde apparition, standing silent in the dining room door. Erin gasped, and the water went over with a crash.

“Shit,” she’d said, half rising as she reached to right the glass. When she looked up again, the girl—

—Lissa—

—was gone.

“Here, let me get that,” a voice said at her shoulder. The landlady—a kindly heavyset woman, her gray hair pulled back from her round, smiling face—leaned over her, dabbing at the table with a cloth.

“What happened?” Charles was saying, but Erin ignored him.

“That girl,” she said, sinking back into her seat.

The landlady paused, the damp rag in one hand. “Girl?”

“There. She was in the doorway.”

“Did she cause this?” The landlady straightened, abruptly stern. “Sarah,” she called. “Sarah, you come in here right now. Always under foot, that one,” she added, swiping at the spill, an expanding island of dampness in the linen cloth. “Sarah!”

“Listen—” Charles began, but Erin over-rode him.

“It’s not the girl’s fault. Really. She startled me, that’s all. She looked so much like—”

Then the girl was there, eyes downcast, her hands clasped behind her back, and the words—

—my daughter—

—died on Erin’s lips.

The girl—pudgy and thick, with a fringe of dark hair veiling her eyes—looked nothing like Lissa.

Nothing at all. Lissa had been airy, ethereal, like some elemental spirit that had settled inexplicably among them. This girl—Sarah—looked sullen and coarse, grossly earthbound.

“Sarah,” the landlady said, “have you been sneaking around again?”

“N’ome. I walked by the door, that’s all. I didn’t mean anything.”

The landlady gave the spill a final swipe. “That should do.” She snapped the rag at the serving station. “Bring me that pitcher, child. Quickly now.”

Charles stared at his plate, his mouth set in a thin line, while the girl complied. She moved slowly, cradling the pitcher in her small hands. She studied Erin from under her bangs as she refilled the glass.

The landlady smiled. “I’m very sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Charles said. “Accidents happen.”

“Ever since her mother passed . . .” The landlady shook her head. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No,” Charles said. “Thank you.”

“You’ll let me know if you need anything, then.” The landlady turned back to the kitchen, herding the girl before her. Just before the child disappeared, she glared back at the table, and for a moment—the space of a heartbeat—she reminded Erin of Lissa once again. It was like the blink of a camera shutter: Sarah, pudgy and resentful; then Lissa. Lissa glaring back at her, her eyes reproachful and unafraid.

You let me die, those eyes said.

Then the shutter blinked again and Lissa was gone. “Charles—”

His hands busied themselves with his silverware.

There was something wounded in his silence, something fraught and sorrowful. He looked like a little boy, scowling at his shoes lest a flash of further intimacy send pent-up tears spilling down his cheeks. Erin had wanted to touch him then, too, and in that moment of weakness, a confessional impulse seized her. A fresh start, he’d said. And why not? You didn’t start fresh with lies.

“Charles—”

His knife chattered against the rim of his plate. A dull reflection alighted trembling on the flat of the blade. He stared at the table.

“I saw her, Charles. It was her. I mean . . . I know . . .”

Then he did look up, his face pale and cold, his expression set.

“She’s gone, Erin. She’s—” He drew a breath, shook his head, sighed. “She’s . . . gone.” He stared at her a moment longer. “I’m sorry,” he said. He hesitated as if he wanted to say more, and then—biting his lower lip—he pushed back his chair and left the dining room.

“Ma’am?” The landlady stood in the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a towel. “Is there something wrong with the meal?”

“No,” Erin said. “The food was fine. Everything’s fine.”

But everything wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. Nothing would ever be fine again. Erin leaned her head against the cool window and focused on the thrum of the tires, the hum of the engine. It would be all right, she told herself. Everything would be all right.

Yet the wood, vast and green and vigilant, still oppressed her.

Gone, Charles had said.

He was right, of course. That was the hell of it. Last night at dinner, she had seen not Lissa but another child, a dark, heavy-set child with griefs and burdens of her own. If Erin’s heart had chosen to see something else, it was an illusion, nothing more.

Perhaps she’d gone mad. Sane women did not see dead children cruising the canned fruit aisle when they did their weekly shopping. Sane women did not see ghostly shapes in the shadows underneath the trees.

Charles downshifted, and the engine tone deepened. Tidal pressure swelled through her as the car leaned into a curve. A bulwark of ancient, moss-damp stone—ten feet at least, and maybe taller—shot up from the forest floor before them, like the fossilized spine of a buried dragon. As the car hurtled toward it, Erin’s heart quickened.

Then the road dipped and a narrow aperture—hardly wider than the car—appeared in the stone. The car shot under an archway. The suffocating omnipresence of the wood—that sense of contained energies churning just beyond the range of perception—retreated. An instant of speeding darkness followed—how thick the wall must be!—and then they surfaced on the other side, into a treeless meadow, sunlight breaking across the windshield.

Charles slowed as the road dropped down into a deep, round bowl carved into the heart wood. He nosed the car up to a second wall—hand-stacked stone, perhaps waist high or a little higher. He killed the engine.

Erin reached for her satchel. “I guess we’re here,” she said.

Copyright © 2018 by Dale Bailey. Excerpted from In the Night Wood by Dale Bailey. 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

Dale Bailey is the critically-acclaimed author of several books, including The End of the End of Everything and The Subterranean Season. His story “Death and Suffrage” was adapted for Showtime’s Masters of Horror television series. His short fiction has won the Shirley Jackson Award and the International Horror Guild Award, has been nominated for the Nebula and Bram Stoker awards, and has been frequently reprinted in best-of-the-year anthologies, including Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. His latest novel, In the Night Wood, is available from John Joseph Adams Books. He lives in North Carolina with his family.

Book Reviews: October 2018

Chris Kluwe | 2150 words

Greetings, readers, and welcome back to another set of book reviews! Now, before we get started, I have a confession to make, a terrible secret which I suspect some few of you may share. You see, I’m almost pathologically incapable of putting down a good book, even (and especially) when it’s supposed to be my bedtime. The bedside lamp goes that peculiar shade of the gravedigger’s hours, the clock reads a time my morning self is already cursing about, and yet I cannot stop reading. “Just one more chapter,” I tell myself, “one more page, just to see how this plot point gets resolved,” and then it’s not quite night and not quite morning, the book is somehow done, and I feel like I should regret my decision but I don’t in the slightest.

The reason why is simple. A good book transports you to another universe, makes you care about the characters within as if they’re just as real as your own life, causes you to lose precious hours of sleep searching for a resolution. A good book gives you the gift of an observer, privileged to share in its wondrous, fantastic story, and no matter the hour, the time spent is not begrudged in the slightest, for those dreaming hours you were lost in its pages, you were allowed to be a part of something else.

All four of the following books kept me up much later than I was anticipating.

Temper
Nicky Drayden
Trade Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9780062493057
Harper Voyager, August 2018, 400 pages

The first book I’d like to review is Temper, by Nicky Drayden. Temper is an interesting philosophical musing on the nature of sin and virtue, as well as the age-old conflict between fate and free will. The novel centers on a society built around the idea that almost every birth results in twins, but that each twin is marked with seven signs—a mixture of vices and virtues—and parents choose which child will bear more vices in order to improve the odds of the virtuous child succeeding. The protagonist, Auben, is marked with six vices and only one virtue, one of the lowest of the low, and his interactions with his twin, his family, and with society at large are both believable and complex, examining the life of someone told from birth the role he must play.

As a starting point, I found this intriguing, and then the novel moves on from there in some highly unanticipated directions, such that by the end, I was more than a little impressed by the scope of Drayden’s concepts. The ending itself was of the type that immediately had me rethinking everything I had read, and I’m looking forward to going through Temper again with that knowledge in mind.

One slight thing that threw me, however, was the transition from the second act to the third, in which the scope of the book expands tremendously; an area I was hoping to spend more time exploring the ideas presented, but one which unfortunately feels a bit rushed—a two-hour metaphysical discussion given only thirty minutes on stage. I think that Drayden grapples with some weighty topics in this last segment, each of which could likely hold a book on its own, and the effect of having them introduced in such rapid succession made me slightly detach from the story. That being said, I still highly enjoyed the book, and the complaint is more a minor, “darn, I wish that part had been longer,” rather than, “this made me want to throw the book at my dog.”

Read if: you like Afrofuturism; you like creation myths; you want to keep Austin weird.

Noumenon: Infinity
Marina J. Lostetter
Trade Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9780062497864
Harper Voyager, August 2018, 576 pages

Changing tacks slightly, the next book in this review is Noumenon: Infinity, by Marina J. Lostetter—a science fiction novel set as a series of seemingly unrelated vignettes covering a vast expanse of time, but by its end, a tale weaving together themes of conflict, exploration, and humanity’s drive to persevere, even against impossible situations.

I really enjoyed the fragmented nature of Noumenon: Infinity, since it turns the book into easily digestible chunks that nevertheless form a cohesive whole once the last one finishes. It’s almost more a collection of short stories than a novel proper, which allows Lostetter to explore a myriad of ideas—some very old (work relationship dynamics), some very new (quantum-linked ancestral memories), and many in between. While this might seem confusing from an outside perspective, each chapter is self-contained enough that you can very much read them one at a time and still come away with an appreciation of what Lostetter was trying to achieve, making it an excellent book for those who don’t have long stretches of time to devote solely to reading.

Another thing I particularly enjoyed is that Lostetter is not afraid to take risks with her worldbuilding, particularly in imagining alien (in the true sense of “not Earth-like”) encounters both internal and external. While a couple of these didn’t quite work for me, the vast majority did, and they add a sense of otherness to the story that’s rare in SF (since unfortunately most “alien”ness tends to be of the “humans in funny suits” variety).

Read if: you like Peter F. Hamilton books; you like epic time-scale stories; you yearn to explore the infinite mysteries of space.

Record of a Spaceborn Few
Becky Chambers
Hardcover / Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9780062851154
Harper Voyager, July 24th, 2018, 429 pages

The third book I have for you is Record of a Spaceborn Few, by Becky Chambers. Superficially, this book is similar to Noumenon: Infinity, in that it takes place in space from the vantage point of multiple characters, but where I would categorize much of Noumenon’s appeal as an external, broad lens look at multiple issues, Record of a Spaceborn Few is almost a complete one-eighty, delving deep into the minutiae of humanity and grounding everything in detailed, loving character development.

Were it not for the obvious SF trappings (colonists on a generation ship, highly advanced technology, the occasional alien), Record of a Spaceborn Few could just as easily be describing a small community anywhere on Earth, but it is a familiarity that is earned, not assumed. Each character grapples with complex emotional issues arising from a shared tragedy, as well as personal challenges oftentimes related to self-discovery—that the life they lead now may not be the life they want to lead in the future—but Chambers always keeps her characters grounded and believable, such that by the end of the book, I felt like I had gotten a glimpse inside several other lives.

Chambers also does an excellent job of presenting different temporal viewpoints among her cast of characters. The teenager who acts like a teenager would, searching for meaning and self-expression in a stifling world of tradition. The young adult who loves her job, yet worries that it defines her, and suspects she’s missing some vital component of life. The middle-aged parent who worries about her children, fears for her financial stability, but is also concerned what trying something new might mean. The elder archivist who takes in everything that happens, intent on passing along her wisdom and ensuring a younger generation doesn’t forget how important the past is.

All of these people are people, ones that you’ve likely met or have been at some point in your life, and Record of a Spaceborn Few does a magnificent job in capturing all the little things that make them so. There’s enough tension within the plot that it never becomes trite or cloying, which is another achievement all on its own, and after I finished reading the book I felt . . . satisfied. I suspect you will, too.

Read if: you like quieter, slice-of-life novels; you like science fiction but don’t want to know how many megajoules makes the differential refractor polarize the thingamajig; you want to know how a body becomes soil.

The City of Brass
S.A. Chakraborty
Trade Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9780062678119
Harper Voyager July 3, 2018, 576 pages

Finally, the last book I’d like to cover is The City of Brass, by S.A. Chakraborty. This book was initially released in 2017 as a hardback, and luckily for me (and you), is being re-released as a paperback. The reason I say “luckily” is that I have read a lot of books in my life, and this one ranks right up among the very best.

The City of Brass takes place in eighteenth-century Cairo, but quickly leaves our familiar world behind for a fantastical realm of ancient djinn and even older magic—Daevabad, the legendary city of brass from which the book gets its title. Daevabad, for all its mystery, however, is immediately recognizable as a city filled with all-too-human plots and schemes, whether it be the usurper king trying to keep his throne, the roiling discontent of an abused underclass, or the near open-conflict between religious zealots and those who despise them.

Chakraborty does a masterful job of weaving all these threads together into an action-packed story filled with alliances that shift like the desert sand, and, more importantly, writes a story that is just as much an equal to any piece of Western fantasy you’ve likely read. In addition, there are also clear parallels between conflicts within the djinn world and conflicts within our own history—more specifically that of continuous occupations in what is commonly referred to as “The Middle East.”

(Please note that “The Middle East” encompasses a large, not at all homogenous grouping of tribes, nations, and religious ideologies, which as a shorthand does not do the region any justice at all, so I would recommend reading up on the history of the Byzantine Empire, Sassanid Persia, the Ottoman Empire, Iran, Egypt, and the formation of Israel, for starters.)

It is clear from her writing that Chakraborty has done her research of the region, and it shows in the descriptions of both people and places, as well as societal norms and expectations. The two characters whose perspectives the story is told from are both fascinating yet flawed, leaving them plenty of room for future growth (or failure), and the secondary characters are all fleshed out with considerable depth, helping bring the world even further to life.

I would be remiss if I also didn’t point out that The City of Brass has some excellent combat pieces, filled with clever swordwork, ominous magics, and terrifying mythological creatures. This is not just a dry, historical re-imagining of Islamic mythology—it is a rambunctious adventure that I think would make an excellent adaptation for HBO or Netflix or Showtime in the vein of American Gods or Game of Thrones, for those who prefer to watch instead of read (though you should also read it). If I’m waxing effusive about this book, it’s because it was really good, and I am personally very excited to see where this tale will lead.

Read if: you like sweeping fantasy adventures; you like One Thousand and One Nights; you like something that isn’t standard Western fantasy.

• • • •

That’s it for this one, folks, and remember, when you have a good book, sleep is what happens to other people!

Other New Books That I Thought Were Interesting But Did Not Have Space To Review:

Kill the Farmboy, by Delilah S. Dawson and Kevin Hearne

Star Wars: Thrawn: Alliances, by Timothy Zahn

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Kluwe grew up in Southern California among a colony of wild chinchillas and didn’t learn how to communicate outside of barking and howling until he was fourteen years old. He has played football in the NFL, once wrestled a bear for a pot of gold, and lies occasionally. He is also the eternal disappointment of his mother, who just can’t understand why he hasn’t cured cancer yet. Do you know why these bio things are in third person? I have no idea. Please tell me if you figure it out.

Media Review: October 2018

Carrie Vaughn | 1537 words

The Darkest Minds: YA Dystopia Has Probably Run Its Course

This summer I wanted to see at least a couple movies that weren’t big blockbusters or sequels or franchises (all the same category, these days), and it seems to be getting harder and harder. There were a couple of smaller science fiction movies, and there are always a few limited release indie SF films floating around—trouble is, they don’t always make it to my area (I really wanted to track down How to Talk to Girls at Parties, based on the Neil Gaiman story, and wasn’t able to do so). Original options on various streaming platforms have been underwhelming. (I saw The Titan on Netflix, and can safely warn you: Don’t, it reaches toward vast new levels of terrible.) Mind you, the franchise offerings I saw—Solo and Ant-Man and The Wasp—were delightful and satisfying as chapters in their respective things. But the search for the new and interesting continues. The Darkest Minds wasn’t it, alas.

I need to start this review with a warning that I wouldn’t have thought of a year, or even six months ago. There’s a scene early on in The Darkest Minds in which large numbers of children are loaded on to busses and driven into government-run camps. When the film was being made, when the novel by Alexandra Bracken was published in 2012, I imagine the thinking went something like, “What is the most dystopian thing we can think of, how unbelievably extreme can we make this look?” Now here we are, after a summer of the U.S. government bussing children to camps, a scene that was supposed to be creepy and unbelievable was instead upsetting. The film moves pretty quickly into standard cliché YA dystopia-with-superpowers territory. But consider this a heads-up that cliché YA dystopia is apparently more relevant than many of us would like it to be.

The Darkest Minds is about a world in which a terrible disease has killed nearly all children. The survivors have superpowers, and are rounded up by the government, ostensibly to be cured, in reality to be used. The powers are rated by color according to their threat level—which is explained to the audience in the most awkward of expository lumps, thereby setting the tone for the whole film. And if you think the accompanying chart looks like it was photoshopped from the Homeland Security threat level chart, well . . . “Greens” have advanced intelligence, “Yellows” can control electricity, “Blues” have telekinesis. “Oranges” and “Reds” are the most dangerous of all and are immediately killed. Our hero Ruby hides her status as an Orange, using her incredible mental powers to control minds and convince everyone she’s a Green. Six years later, Ruby escapes with the help of a sympathetic doctor who is part of an organization hoping to rescue children from the horrors of the camp. But Ruby suspects their motives, runs away, and meets three other super-powered teens: Liam, Charles, and Zu. They are searching for East River, a haven for escaped children led by a mysterious and powerful leader, the Slip Kid.

My favorite part of the movie is when the teens are on the run in a stolen van. The four main actors have a good rapport, and the characters’ adventures are engaging, despite an awkward and forced teen romance between Ruby and Liam. Then they reach East River, where they discover that the Slip Kid is actually Clancy Gray, the President’s son and most famous survivor of the plague. And he’s clearly going to turn out to be evil because he’s wearing a shirt with a collar. Also, he’s the only other surviving Orange besides Ruby, and he has plans for her powers. Things continue predictably after that. Just to show us how villainous Clancy is, he tries to rape Ruby. This is a perfect example of a time when adding rape to a story feels excessive—we know Clancy is up to no good, the attempted rape just lays it on even thicker.

I have to give the film a little credit for hanging a lantern on its own tropes. During a party at the camp, Ruby observes that the telekinetically-controlled floating lanterns make this place look “just like Hogwarts.” Liam replies, “I guess that makes you Harry Potter.” Yes, painfully on-the-nose dialog that characterizes the entire film, I guess it does.

So yes, Ruby is the Chosen One that these stories always feature, which leads to some decidedly mixed signals. We’re told repeatedly that all the “colors” are equal (that painfully on-the-nose dialog again), that they shouldn’t be treated differently, that they should all get along. And then Ruby is told how special she is, how powerful she is. This is something of a paradox—Ruby can’t be extra special and also be egalitarian. It’s a paradox most stories of this genre don’t try to navigate. Usually, the Chosen One is Super Special and Amazing and that’s that.

Comparisons to the X-Men are obvious, and during the climactic battle Clancy echoes Magneto’s declaration of mutant superiority just as Liam and the others preach Professor X’s ideal that they all ought to be able to live in peace. Borrow from the best, we’re told, and the trope of children with superpowers on the run is a classic. (I thought of Escape to Witch Mountain, along with everything else this movie reminded me of.) The superhero action, particularly Liam’s telekinesis, is another of the film’s strengths. The film’s weakness is a lack of depth. I have a lot of questions about this terrible disease that has killed most children and left the survivors with the typical array of superpowers. Are there new children being born? Are they affected? What is happening with, well, everything? What’s happening in the rest of the world? Or is this just in the U.S.? Children of Men, one of the best SF movies of the last dozen years or so, focused on an image of a world without children. The Darkest Minds makes gestures toward this with an empty landscape and a throwaway line about everyone living in cities now. But the film isn’t interested in that world as anything but a way to set up everything else. The dystopia and how it got there is an excuse for giving us the X-Men meets Red Dawn. Or maybe Lord of the Flies.

The PG-13 rating is an interesting choice for a film that seems just a little bit Disney and aimed at kids, as this one clearly is. The film earns it, racking up quite the body count and a notable amount of on-screen violence. Ruby herself is responsible for quite a few of those bodies, with no reflection on the consequences of killing. (One of the things I love about The Hunger Games, the chief of all modern YA dystopia fiction, is that it’s pretty much all about the personal toll of Katniss’s actions and the deaths she causes. It’s a post-Vietnam reframing of heroism as trauma.) In one scene, Ruby commands Lady Jane, a bounty hunter played by a criminally underused Gwendoline Christie, to walk into the forest and never stop. And I thought—our protagonist is Kilgrave? The villain of Jessica Jones who can command anyone to do anything, including killing themselves in horrific and gruesome ways? Because what Ruby does to Lady Jane is something Kilgrave would do. I kept waiting for the film to go back to Lady Jane, or to at least have a moment when Ruby questions herself. That moment never happens. It doesn’t matter how carefully the film demonstrates that the villains are awful and deserving of the terrible deaths Ruby inflicts on them. She controls minds. She erases memories. When a minor argument breaks out between Charles and another kid in the camp, Ruby casually changes the mind of the other kid. So this is how we’ll all live together in peace, I guess? Charles recognizes what she does and gives a bit of a side-eye, but Ruby’s use of her power, the idea that her power is violating the rights and autonomy of others—might we even call it mental rape?—is never confronted.

This is what I mean about lack of depth. This story touches on some interesting ideas, and then breezes past them, relying instead on the genre’s familiar tropes to carry it. The Darkest Minds doesn’t really end so much as peter out, as Ruby decides to leave her friends and stands before a crowd of super-powered teens getting ready for war, as their obvious leader. Because while everyone is equal, some are more equal than others. This sets us up for an obvious, inevitable sequel—we’re carefully shown that Clancy survived the big climactic battle. I will not be going to see it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carrie Vaughn is the bestselling author of the Kitty Norville series, as well as the superhero novels Dreams of the Golden Age and After the Golden Age, the young adult novels Voices of Dragons and Steel, and the fantasy novel Discord’s Apple. Her recent books include Martians Abroad and Amaryllis and Other Stories, as well as her post-apocalyptic mysteries for John Joseph Adams Books, the Philip K. Dick Award-winning Bannerless, and its sequel, The Wild Dead. Her Hugo Award-nominated short fiction has appeared in many magazines and anthologies, from Lightspeed to Tor.com, as well as in George R.R. Martin’s Wild Cards series. She lives in Boulder, Colorado. Learn more at carrievaughn.com.

Interview: Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah

Christian A. Coleman | 2206 words

Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah has an MFA from Syracuse University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including Guernica, Printer’s Row, and the Breakwater Review, where ZZ Packer awarded him the Breakwater Review Fiction Prize. He lives in Syracuse, New York.

Congratulations on your debut collection, Friday Black! What’s it like to have your very first book out in the world?

It is both incredible and terrifying. You work for years and years on a project, and it grows with you and, for the most part, only you. Then, more and more people get to see and live what you’ve created—this thing you’ve had a years’ long relationship with that was exclusive. Suddenly, people you don’t know know the work well, and it is bewildering but also beautiful.

Tell us a bit about your background and upbringing in Spring Valley, NY. Did growing up there influence your writing?

Spring Valley absolutely influenced my person and my writing. I moved there from Queens, NY, when I was seven. I like to claim that loudly everywhere I go, because I love where I’m from. Spring Valley is an immigrant community with a lot of first-generation kids with families from Haiti and other parts of the Caribbean, Ghana, Nigeria, and many African countries. We have a ton of South Americans, and we also have a lot of people from the Philippines, Vietnam, and other Asian countries as well. I think it made me flexible as a person. It gave me an ear/eye for a lot of different ways of being. It’s also small enough that a lot of people know each other. If I take a walk outside, I know I’ll see someone I know and they’ll show love. There is a community. I also think that because there are a lot of economic challenges that come from a number of different factors, there is a feeling of kind of wanting more, of knowing things can improve.

Spring Valley, in its proximity to New York City, is a lot of things, and one of those feelings I’ve noticed is a feeling of longing, of being near but not “there.” I don’t know how that has affected my writing, but I’m sure it has.

When did you know you wanted to become a writer? And who were the authors that got you interested in writing?

I’ve been interested in writing since I was a child. But because I had never been exposed to a writer in the flesh, and because pursuing art wasn’t really presented to me as a viable lifestyle, I didn’t actively allow myself to believe I could be a writer until I was in college. Lynne Tillman was the first author to really take me under her wing, and being around her and in her classes helped get me to see that writers were actual human beings, like me. And as a reader, so many different writers got me interested. I was a Harry Potter kid, so J.K. Rowling is huge for me. Alice Walker’s The Third Life of Grange Copeland affected me deeply as a young person. As I got older, people like Toni Morrison and George Saunders really became special for me.

George Saunders gave you a call saying you’d been accepted into the MFA program at Syracuse University. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. What was your reaction?

I was at an internship at the Times Union, an Albany newspaper, when George called. I basically freaked out. This was my favorite writer and the reason I went for the MFA calling my phone. I think I stuttered a bunch of thank yous.

Could you tell us what the experience of your program was like and what sort of reactions your stories got in workshop? I’m especially curious about the reactions to the stories with genre elements.

The program was a huge blessing for me, and my writing grew exponentially during my time as a student in Syracuse. In workshop, fortunately, the stories that had fantasy/speculative elements were received very well. And despite that, I actually resisted writing outside of straight realism for a long time. But my cohorts and professors were encouraging in whatever I was trying to write, and I got lucky in that way. For a long time, I remember trying to get my professors to tell me to be either this or that, to choose between these modes I was sort of oscillating between. They didn’t, and eventually, I realized you can be more than one thing, which is what I consider the strength of this book.

Yes, you definitely have more than one thing going on in this collection: magical realism, fantasy, and science fiction. Horror seems to be a major thread that runs through all the stories. The variety is a lot of fun. What do you enjoy about playing with these genres?

I really like creating rules to fit my purposes. I like that seizing of authority where I can get a reader to buy a man in a hospital gown floating in the air. Or not, maybe. But I really like the work that goes into trying. And with those more magical elements, I think that when you do them right, they can help the story exist on many registers, like well-played chords. Many things can happen at once in harmony. And it’s just fun understanding and creating something that doesn’t actually exist and getting a reader to join you in that fun.

So, speaking of well-played chords and harmony, you begin the book with a quote from Kendrick Lamar: “Anything you imagine you possess.” What meaning does it have for you?

It’s from a song called “Blessed” by Schoolboy Q and it features Kendrick Lamar. For me, the line sort of connects to the general idea of creating, of art and the freedom your imagination might allow you. It’s encouragement, kind of for myself, to remember I have all the things I need already.

How did you decide which stories to put in this collection and the order they’re put in?

I have very specific sequencing ideas that run through the whole book. I think about pace and impact a lot. For example, “The Finkelstein 5” is the first story, because my thought was if this reader only reads one thing from me ever, I want it to be that. The second story, which is the shortest in the book, is like a brief interlude, one that I consider extremely earnest without much separation from my actual life. It ends on an extremely sincere note to my mother. That is immediately followed by a story that begins with a crass/vulgar exclamation that sort of says, “All right, from here on out, we’re on this ride.”

Let’s talk about “The Finkelstein 5.” In this story, a man is acquitted after using a chainsaw to murder five Black children standing outside a library, because he felt threatened by them. Were you drawing from Toni Morrison’s novel Song of Solomon? You’ve mentioned her as an inspiration. And your character Boogie reminds me of her character Guitar, who was a member of Seven Days, the organization that kills white people in retaliation of the racial killings of Blacks. Boogie gets the protagonist, Emmanuel, to join a similar group.

Somehow, I wasn’t thinking of the Seven Days explicitly when I wrote “The Finkelstein 5,” but I am positive it was rattling somewhere in my consciousness. I love that book.

Is “The Finkelstein 5” connected in any way to your satirical YouTube video “Society 101: Why Racism Doesn’t Exist” (bit.ly/2wsUihb)? I was thinking of the Blackness Scale Emmanuel keeps in check, my own daily experiences as a Black man with the scale, and how your professor character in the video becomes Black by putting on a hoodie.

It is connected in the sense that both use a kind of dark reality and poke fun to make a devastating point. I made that video in college, long before I wrote the story, but I think the point is clear: Respectability won’t save you. Trying to “behave” so racists won’t be racist won’t save you. And the idea that people’s value is determined based on their appearance is inherently prejudiced, and that video demonstrates a frustration with just how much we as a society seem to think that’s okay.

One theme I noticed running through some of the stories is displacement. The families in the father-son stories “The Hospital Where” and “The Lion and the Spider” are evicted and forced to live in smaller cramped digs. And I may be pushing it a bit, but I’d also say that “Through the Flash” counts as a displacement story, too, because the characters are unmoored from linear time and trapped in this Groundhog Day-like loop where some of them cope by indulging in extreme acts of violence against others.

This comes up again and again, because personal experience has a way of flavoring everything. My own experience with housing instability and displacement has shaped a great deal of my life, the nature of my personal ambition, my fears, and my hope for the world. So that bleeds a lot into my work. Especially this book.

Ritualistic violence is another theme I picked up on in several of your stories—ritualistic, because through repetition, it becomes social practice. There’s “Through the Flash.” There’s “Zimmer Land,” which takes place in a dystopian future where white people can hunt people of color for sport at a theme park so that people of color won’t be murdered in real life. Zombified shoppers clobber, claw, and kill each other to get that perfect winter coat or TV monitor in “Friday Black.” Do you find that the genre tropes you use help you write about human cruelty and injustice?

Yeah, I think these frames help me on multiple levels. On one level, they let me explore violence and the way it reoccurs. They allow me a kind of distance from the actual world, and that helps me get closer to the heart of my understanding of the cruelty I might be engaging with. These tropes are different ways I can say, “Look at this horror,” and also, “Isn’t this basically what we are doing?”

What’s frightening about “Zimmer Land” is that everyone, including the people of color who work at the titular park, is complicit in this dystopia of gamified white supremacy. And the other frightening thing is that this park really doesn’t solve the problem of preventing violence against people of color.

The park, in that condescending way we often see, thinks it knows the best way to solve the problems of the world. The different park employees justify their participation in several different ways, and I think it’s up to the reader to make something of those justifications.

You also have three stories about retail in the collection, “Friday Black” being one of them. Now, both you and Sorry to Bother You director Boots Riley have backgrounds as salesmen. Your stories are as savagely satirical about capitalism as his film. And both of you have talked about the performance required in making a sale: For Riley, it’s the white voice; for you, it’s what you call projecting sincerity. Would you say that the performative aspect leads to the inner death of the salesman, so to speak, and feeds the capitalist system that dehumanizes consumers?

I think the performance of sincerity certainly can lead to a kind of spiritual dying, and capitalist systems are kind of betting on that happening so that those spirit-crushed cogs might more readily keep the machine working. That said, a more hopeful part of me thinks that the performance of sincerity often becomes a genuine sincerity. When you are pretending to care about someone, it isn’t hard, if you are open enough, to realize that this is a real person with real needs, and maybe you do care about them for real. I guess I think that while capitalism is betting on the inner death, we are often a lot tougher than we give ourselves credit for. There are deep reservoirs of genuine kindness in most people, I think.

What’s coming up after Friday Black? Do you have any new projects you can tell us about?

I can, but I don’t think I’ll say much. I’m working on a novel.

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: Dale Bailey

Jude Griffin | 684 words

How did this story come about?

“The Horror of Party Beach” is part of a longer series of stories I’ve been doing, in which I borrow the titles of cheesy SF/horror movies from the 1950s (and in this case the ’60s), and use them as the inspiration for a new piece. The original intent was to write emotionally serious stories around these ridiculous titles—to take the situations they suggested and treat them with the seriousness a mainstream literary writer might bring to his or her material. And that intent, mixed in with some humor, has largely held true throughout the series—there have been seven of them now. But with “The Horror of Party Beach,” I just collapsed into the absolute pulpy goodness of the thing. Though I hope there is a strong emotional core to the relationship between Mike and Elaine, the story is essentially my own version of a so-bad-it’s-good SF/horror picture of that era. You can’t take it seriously—but I hope you do, because, as I said, there is something real (I think) to the core relationships in the piece.

The setting feels like Lovecraft’s New England—deliberate?

Not at all deliberate. I was thinking mostly of the movie itself, which was one of the only (if not the only) ’60s beach movies actually filmed on the east coast. But the Lovecraft thought is an interesting one, because setting is so central to so many horror stories. Though I would argue that “The Horror of Party Beach” isn’t trying very hard to be a horror story, I can’t imagine it working if you translated the action to sunny Long Beach.

Which character was the most difficult to hammer out?

I don’t know that difficult is the right word. They mostly came pretty easily because, in keeping with that pulp tradition, I think they’re by and large flat characters. Brad is the Big Man on Campus. Dr. Gavin is the Mad Scientist, if you take my meaning—so I was mostly dealing cards out of a deck of pre-established archetypes. Mike and Elaine are real characters—mostly three-dimensional characters—who have (to their misfortune) fallen into a pulp story . . . But the character I most enjoyed playing with was Dr. Gavin, especially in terms of the quest for knowledge that drives him. And I had the most fun of all working out the specifics of his “science”—of course a mad scientist would inject his daughter with irradiated coelacanth blood! It’s the only thing to do!

Whose horror writing do you admire?

I admire many writers of horror (not to mention writers of lots of other stuff), but I will limit myself to two. I love Caitlín R. Kiernan’s work because of the imaginative range she brings to her material. Her knowledge of every living thing under the sun—and her understanding of how human beings tick—makes her every story utterly convincing. The beautiful prose is a bonus. I also love the work of Nathan Ballingrud. We’re close friends, but even if we weren’t, I would admire the understated emotional power of his work, the entirely convincing depictions of the desperate lives of his sad, wounded characters. He, too, writes beautiful prose, and in his new stuff, he’s really stretching his range. I’m on the inside, and I have to tell you, there are some brilliant gonzo stories on the near horizon.

Any news or projects you want to tell us about?

Short stories coming out here and there. But the big news (for me, anyway) is the publication of my new novel, In the Night Wood. It’s a totally different kind of animal than the pulpy “The Horror of Party Beach”—it tends far more to the literary end of the spectrum—but I think readers will enjoy it. I hope so, anyway. I have a daughter to put through college!

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Jude Griffin is an envirogeek, writer, and photographer. She trained llamas at the Bronx Zoo; was a volunteer EMT, firefighter, and HAZMAT responder; worked as a guide and translator for journalists covering combat in Central America; lived in a haunted village in Thailand; ran an international frog monitoring network; and loves happy endings. Bonus points for frolicking dogs and kisses backlit by a shimmering full moon.

Author Spotlight: Cameron Van Sant

Arley Sorg | 817 words

How did “Super-Luminous Spiral” start for you—what was the inspiration and how did it develop?

“Super-Luminous Spiral” started with a question: Why do so many literary short stories center on cheating? Instead of trying to find the truth, I decided to make my own answer through a very bisexual speculative story. Hopefully, that story seed grew into something more interesting and complex than a jab at literature’s cheating obsession . . .

Also, I’m pretty sure now that I’ve written this, I’m condemned to only writing about cheating from here on out.

Second person present tense! Why second person and what are the challenges of writing in second person?

This was not a very conscious choice for me—one day I heard this prophetic and almost accusatory voice in my head that knew exactly what was going to happen to this protagonist. I went with it, and I’m glad my subconscious or whatever picked the second-person pronoun, because it works for a story that’s foreboding and immediate. I’d like to emphasize that this was a very unexpected process for me—my inner voices usually only give unhelpful advice, like to add quirky talking dogs.

Writing in second person made me question lots of basic things about the story—should I include dialogue? What details should be added and omitted about the protagonist? Who gets to have names and who doesn’t? I think that questioning was a fun challenge and ultimately helped me be more aware of the cogs of the story.

Is the galaxy boy modeled on anyone or inspired by anyone in particular? Or was he always more of an abstract notion?

I didn’t intentionally model the galaxy boy after anyone, but now that I think about it, I see some of my childhood love of X-Men leaking through in his description. He’s basically Mystique, if Mystique were a galaxy-spangled undergraduate dude who traded in shape-shifting for supernaturally keeping writers up at night.

When I made him, I intended for him to be a pseudo-trans character and he has a physical resemblance to some transgender men. In fiction, transgender men are usually resigned to transitioning and suffering, distantly pining after cisgender people rather than having their own complex relationships. Sexy villains are not an available role. The galaxy boy, on the other hand, isn’t a trans man who’s grateful for being noticed by a benevolent cis person, he’s a kind of incubus who takes people’s affections for granted and feasts on broken hearts.

By the way, if any readers missed the trans resemblance, so did all of my cisgender beta readers. The trans ones got it, though. I guess technically it’s open to interpretation . . .

There are several threads here that stand out to me—elusive inspiration, connections between creativity and sex/relationships, ecstatic moments, freedom and expression, and more—what is your favorite thing about this story, and what do you want readers to know about it?

I was interested in elusive inspiration, especially in the form of a muse—it’s so hard to be consistently creative, the idea that your own creativity comes from another person sounds a little too tempting. Of course, the idea of the muse disregards their autonomy, narrative, and their own creativity. I wanted to write a muse who not only resists being used, but uses and leaves the writer.

Who are the authors that inspire you most and what are the stories you want to tell people to read (and why)?

I am inspired by works that mix complex human relationships (romantic or otherwise) with something fantastical. I love Malinda Lo’s Huntress, Yoon Ha Lee’s Machineries of Empire trilogy, Caitlín R. Kiernan’s The Red Tree, Nnedi Okorafor’s Akata Witch, David Levithan’s Every Day, Charlie Jane Anders’ All the Birds in the Sky, and Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles.

I want people to read the stories in Capricious: The Gender Diverse Pronouns Issue. The anthology is made up of speculative stories that include personal pronouns other than he or she. I’m in it, so this is technically self-promotion, but if you read all the others and ignored mine, I would still be happy, because this anthology is that good. Bogi Takács has a fun space detective adventure story called “Volatile Patterns” about misused magic that will charm your socks off. A.E. Prevost’s delightful and cozy “Sandals Full of Rainwater” contemplates language, immigration, and gender in a fascinating way. This anthology stretches the limits of gender in speculative fiction and you won’t be disappointed.

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: Molly Tanzer

Arley Sorg | 918 words

The cosmetic procedure in this piece is such an interesting idea. What inspired it, where did it come from, and how did it develop into a story?

Refractin, the cosmetic procedure, was born of a few of my obsessions pooling together—modern art, Vantablack, body modification, and the act of reading people’s nonverbal communication. Oh, and the one illustration of the Terrible Trivium from The Phantom Tollbooth, which scared me so much as a kid I had to skip that chapter. Anyway, the idea of a living mask is something that has obviously appeared in a lot of speculative fiction, but I liked the idea of framing it as a cosmetic procedure that’s already become somewhat normalized in the near future.

For me, the heart of this story is really about how we crave validation, and the complex ways we go about seeking it, even when we think we are casting aside the need or avoiding it. The journey here feels so real, which makes the ending land so damn hard. In terms of technique or process, how do you go about making a story feel true?

Thank you! I guess for me, relationships are always at the heart of what I write, no matter what the speculative framework might be. That way, the core is always something relatable—like, I think odds are most people have been through an annoying breakup or gotten a body modification for questionable reasons . . . or is intimately familiar with someone who’s done either of those things.

There’s this conversation going on here about how people often go to extremes to satisfy their partner(s) or to feel more attractive to their target audience. Do you feel like this is still just as big an issue as it was in the days when breast augmentation was popular?

I think it’s great that we’ve had a cultural conversation about the reasons people get cosmetic surgeries as a form of body modification. Breast augmentation in particular was given a bad rap for a long time as being a way women might satisfy the demands of the patriarchy, but now it’s more and more obvious that there are many reasons people get it done—just like tattoos.

There’s also this startling—but true, I think—discussion going on about sexuality. And I think what makes it interesting is the different facets explored in the narrative, as well as the frankness of the exploration. What are the challenges of getting these ideas across, and how do you navigate them?

I always write frankly about sexuality if I’m writing about it at all. The challenge is, I think, to walk the line between frank and crass. With this protagonist, I wanted it to be very direct, given that I imagined her talking to a therapist, so no need to dissemble. Plus, she’s in that fragile and vulnerable place post-breakup realization that they are never ever getting back together, so the veil is being drawn back and she’s being a bit more honest than she might be under normal circumstances.

Is there anything else you want readers to know about this piece? What stands out about it for you?

They really do grow Vantablack. Isn’t that so weird? I learned that when I was writing it, and I just can’t get over it.

You have a lot of work out. Are you one of those writers who is as comfortable in shorter formats as novels? Does your style or approach change depending on what the project is?

That’s funny—I feel like I don’t put out much at all! When I look at my peers who have been publishing for a commensurate amount of time, I always feel like I lag behind. It’s not a race or a competition, it’s just interesting to me to note. I’m a slower writer, and that’s okay!

I do take a different approach with longer and shorter fiction. My short fiction recently has been more modern, more single-emotion driven, whereas my longer-form stuff is more research-intensive and tends to showcase a more diverse range of sensations. At least, I think so . . .?

Creatures of Want and Ruin is out soon, scheduled for November 2018! What are you working on now that fans can look forward to? And for those who just learned about you with this story, what should they read next to get to know you and your writing?

Yep, November 13th, it’s available for pre-order! I’m excited that the early readers have liked it—it’s set in 1927 and it’s got Great Gatsby-style parties on Long Island, demons, and bootlegging. Currently I’m working on the third in the series, Creatures of Charm and Hunger, which is set in Cumbria at the end of WWII and definitely has a plot that can be summed up as “Jewish teen witch murders Nazis via astral projection,” so there it is. And I’m tapping on a short story when I have the time!

If people liked this story, I’d definitely say to check out my other one at Lightspeed, “Nine-Tenths of the Law,” which is also near-future SF about sad people being mean to one another for understandable but bad reasons.

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: Mel Kassel

Sandra Odell | 880 words

The opening scene of “Ten Deals with the Indigo Snake” pulls no punches and I was immediately and gloriously drawn into the narrative. Tell us something of what inspired this story.

I spent a large chunk of my childhood in Gainesville, Florida, where the local fauna are as much a part of your property as the front door. We had gators in our yard after it rained, an armadillo living under the porch, and a long pile of rocks against one side of the house that sheltered a huge snake. Every so often, we’d find one of its shed skins wedged between the rocks. Because I never laid eyes on it, and because its skins told us that it was quite big, it took on a mythic status in my mind. My mother guessed that it might be an indigo snake.

I’d known for a long time that I wanted to write about that particular snake, and that I wanted to tilt the idea of snakes as utterly sinister beings. I love snakes—I think they’re beautiful! I also wanted to work on a Faustian bargain story that wasn’t a repeat of what’s come before.

This story encompasses a range of nuanced elements: LGBTQIA+ themes, addiction, Christian origin stories, three-fold goddess imagery, feminism, self-awareness and forgiveness, the delicate dance of truth and perspective. Did you initially intend to weave so many elements together or did the imagery fall into place as the story came to fruition?

I knew I wanted queer representation, addiction, snakes, and deals at the outset. But I had no idea how (or if) these elements would gel. I tend to plan my stories around one or two snapshots that keep cropping up in my head. In this case, the snapshots were the snake-in-the-rocks that I remembered from Florida, and the image of a snake and a woman sleeping together, their relationship strong but entirely nonsexual. I initially tried to avoid referencing religion, but those connotations ended up being harder to dodge than to include and reinterpret. So, there were a lot of unexpected elements that slithered in, by the end.

One thing I admired about “Ten Deals with the Indigo Snake” is how you touched on stories and symbols inherent to both western monotheistic religions and more global representations of both pantheistic goddess worship and a reverence for snakes. In particular I loved the passage where the main character lets Drymarchon sleep with her for the first time, almost an expression of the feminine divine. Do you have an interest in religion and myth?

I’m so glad you enjoyed that scene! It’s probably my favorite. I’m super interested in religion and myth, specifically the roles of animals in human stories and the weight that we assign to ritual. But I haven’t studied any of these topics in an official capacity (unless you count being forced to attend Hebrew school as a kid). I love reading about them when I can, and I’d like to broaden the scope of that reading.

The main character’s gambling addiction drives both the internal and external conflict, lending strength to the final scene, the final line. To you, what makes an interesting conflict in a short story?

Oof, tough question. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how so many of my stories feature characters who are lying to themselves. I think that’s a conflict that reliably pulls me in—someone whose perception clashes with what the reader knows (or comes to realize) is true, and a sense of how the character struggles with that clash.

But honestly, I think any kind of conflict can be made interesting if you’re drawn to the people experiencing it and/or the conceit it exists within. I can get lost in a story about someone trying to choose between fried or scrambled eggs if they have a compelling-enough voice, or if they’re sitting in a compelling-enough diner.

You have a number of short story sales under your belt. What writing projects you would like to tackle in the future?

In the next couple years, I’d like to put together a collection of short stories and start work on a novel. I have some idea of how to go about achieving the first goal, and no idea of how to approach even thinking about the second. But it’s safe to say that both will involve animals and body horror. Probably.

What’s next for Mel Kassel? What can eager readers look forward to in the coming months?

My dream is to help close the imagined gap between speculative and literary fiction—a gap that is already being interrogated by a great many writers and magazines whose work I admire. So, although I don’t have a hyper-specific sneak peek of my own work to offer at the moment, I hope it’s all right if I direct readers to some of my Clarion 2018 buds who are publishing short fiction in that vein: Senaa Ahmad, Ploi Pirapokin, K.C. Mead-Brewer, Audrey R. Hollis, and Daniela Tomova.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Sandra Odell is a 47-year old, happily married mother of two, an avid reader, compulsive writer, and rabid chocoholic. Her work has appeared in such venues as Jim Baen’s UNIVERSE, Daily Science Fiction, Crosssed Genres, Pseudopod, and The Drabblecast. She is hard at work plotting her second novel or world domination. Whichever comes first.

Coming Attractions

The Editors | 228 words

Coming up in November in Lightspeed . . .

We have original science fiction by Theodore McCombs (“Talk to Your Children about Two-Tongued Jeremy”) and Stephen Graham Jones (“Moon Boys”), along with SF reprints by Sarah Micklem (“The Book Collector”) and Kim Stanley Robinson (“Remaking History”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by Theodora Goss (“Queen Lily”) and Matthew Hughes (“Hapthorn’s Last Case”), and fantasy reprints by Cadwell Turnbull (“Other Worlds and This One”) and Sofia Samatar (“Meet Me in Iram”).

Our nonfiction team will bring us our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with our book and media review columns. Our feature interview will be with author Andy Duncan.

For our ebook readers, we also have our usual ebook-exclusive novella reprint—“Trinity,” by Nancy Kress—and a book excerpt.

It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out.

• • • •

Looking ahead beyond next month, we’ve got a veritable plethora of stories forthcoming. We’ve got work from the following authors coming up over the next couple of issues: Ashok K. Banker, A. Merc Rustad, Caroline M. Yoachim, Violet Allen, Rajan Khanna, Carrie Vaughn, Meg Elison, and Lizz Huerta.

So be sure to keep an eye out for all that speculative goodness in the months to come. And while you’re at it, tell a friend about Lightspeed.

Thanks for reading!

Stay Connected

The Editors

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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

Chris Kluwe

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 and Fantasy 2015 (with Joe Hill)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2016 (with Karen Joy Fowler)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2017 (with Charles Yu)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2018 (with N.K. Jemisin) [Oct. 2018]

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)

A People’s Future of the United States (with Victor LaValle) [Feb. 2019]

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

The Spaceship Next Door by Gene Doucette

In the Night Wood by Dale Bailey

Creatures of Want and Ruin by Molly Tanzer

Break the Bodies, Haunt the Bones by Micah Dean Hicks

The Chaos Function by Jack Skillingstead

Upon a Burning Throne by Ashok K. Banker

Gather the Fortunes by Bryan L. Camp

The Unfinished Land by Greg Bear

The Chosen One by Veronica Roth

Visit johnjosephadams.com to learn more about all of the above.