MYTHIC

A QUARTERLY SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY MAGAZINE

ISSUE #7 | SUMMER 2018

INTRODUCTION

An Editor’s Hope

SHAUN KILGORE

HERE WE ARE. YOU are now reading the seventh issue of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. It’s been nearly two years since I decided to try out this crazy idea of creating my own publication dedicated to speculative short fiction. I’ve read so many wonderful stories, not all of which made it into MYTHIC’s pages, but many did. There are plenty of talented writers out there telling astounding, thought-provoking, strange, and wonderful tales. These have been stories that have grabbed the imagination and dragged it off in unexpected directions. I have been so grateful for the chance to share them with our readers over these many months.

I’ve said it before but I will say it again: producing a magazine single-handedly is incredibly challenging. I don’t always get it exactly right and I’ve made mistakes. I know that, but I still enjoy doing it. I’m still learning. I still love seeing the paperback issue for the first time and holding it in my hands. I suppose that’s the writer in me. The pleasure of the finished issue is shared one though. I’m sharing it with many other writers who’ve graced the pages of this publication with their work. We’ve made something special, one issue at a time, and I thank you.

The same is true of the issue you hold in your hands. Despite the lingering delays due to the circumstances I missed last issue, I got through the submissions and made my selections. It was fun but so hard to cut some stories. I wish I could have had double the stories this time. Just a great variety of quality stories.

With another volume of MYTHIC set and ready to launch, I’m reflecting a lot on what I’ve been able to accomplish and I’ve just been wishing and hoping that others would take notice and discover the great writing in the pages of this magazine. I’m sure that’s every editor’s hope. So, with that hope, I will continue to find ways to share MYTHIC and spread the word so we gain more readers, more subscribers, patrons and more supporters so we can keep this thing going and make it a better publication too.

That all said, enjoy what’s to come.

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Interested in submitting stories to MYTHIC? We prefer electronic submissions. You may email us at the following address: submissions@mythicmag.com.

For more complete submission guidelines and any other information, you may visit our website: www.mythicmag.com

THE LONG BET

JEFF SULLINS

WADE LOOKED DOWN AT the metallic cylinder that would keep him alive for the next several centuries. He tried not to think of it as a coffin, but the resemblance was hard to ignore. Still, it was nuclear powered, which was not something most coffins could boast.

It was smooth and rounded at the ends, like an enormous pill. It lay with dozens of others in a row, exact replicas of his own. Around him other men and women looked at their own lifepods, a few with eager faces, most with doubt. Each was dressed as he was, in a slender black bodysuit with bioports and display visors. Ready to depart.

Wade said, “Never thought I’d end up here. First gamble I’ve lost so spectacularly.”

“Sorry?” a woman near him replied, appearing unsure if Wade had addressed her.

“Oh nothing. Just thinkin’ out loud.” He stuck out a hand, offering to shake. “I’m Wade. Going to be a while before we hear another human voice, eh?”

With noticeable reluctance, the woman shook hands. “Um, yes. I suppose it will be. It’s a great opportunity.”

“Heh. If you say so.”

“Just think. We’ll wake hundreds of years from now, light years away on another world. Farther than humanity has ever ventured.” The woman sounded as though trying to convince herself of something, but did manage a somewhat-enthusiastic smile.

“Hmph. If I wake at all it’ll be to a toxic ice ball or a scorching rock, the way my luck’s been running.”

The woman blanched, then muttered a half-spoken apology before turning away. Wade couldn’t stop a low chuckle. “Well, sometimes plain truth doesn’t go down so well.”

A sterile feminine voice called out over a loudspeaker, “Phase three of the seed protocol commencing. All travelers enter your lifepods to initiate stasis procedure. Pods will be loaded onto interstellar craft in fifteen minutes.”

Lids raised on the row of lifepods, revealing plush interiors, instrument panels, and the plumbing that would connect to their bio ports.

“Yep, it’s a coffin,” Wade said to nobody in particular as he clambered inside.

He was surprised at how cozy it was, all things considered. “You may experience some discomfort as your pod prepares you for stasis,” a now-familiar feminine voice informed him.

It had never been his intention to end up here. I’m really doing it. Off to a new world.

Human ingenuity had never found a way to travel faster than light, so reaching worlds beyond Earth’s solar system had never seemed possible. But science had advanced in other ways. For instance, Wade’s lifepod was a marvel of cryonics. In theory, there was no limit to how long it could preserve him.

Not everyone could survive the process, however. To survive in a lifepod you needed gene modification, which was just as likely to be lethal. The ethics of acquiring test subjects proved to be one of many hurdles.

Enter the Earth Seed Foundation with a solution. It had offered large sums of money to volunteers willing to undergo the somewhat-experimental gene modification and stasis procedure. Incurable gambler that he was, Wade had happily taken the foundation’s money. For an additional bonus, he’d also agreed to sign on for a possible long-term stint in the pod. He figured more money and a possible trip to the future. Win-win.

And the future it would be. The trip to Gliese 581, a star system some 20 light years away, would take 200 years with a new antimatter drive. He’d been willing to wake up in the future, but a different world as well... Well, most likely he wouldn’t live to see it anyway.

Cold began to seep into his body as his pod pumped chilled liquids into his circulatory system. It’s starting now. He’d been tested in a pod before, so he knew that in a few minutes “some discomfort” would become “extreme pain” as his muscles cramped up prior to losing consciousness. Why didn’t I just give the money back? He sighed while he could still breathe.

SEEDS.

The idea was, preparing a huge mission on an arc-like craft to send on a multi-century voyage had so many risks, so many possibilities for failure, that success could not be achieved. Thousands of emergencies might arise over the course of such a long trip. The resulting probability that at least one failure would strike was so high, the Earth Seed Foundation decided to take a radically different approach.

Instead of a massively engineered, massively planned single shot, they’d follow the “dandelion model.” Launch a score of smaller craft, each with a smaller payload and chance of success, betting that the overall chance of a single success would increase. It worked in nature, after all. It would work for the Foundation. The numbers must have looked good enough to try it out with some willing volunteers.

Of course, the downside was that the odds for any single seed weren’t so great. There were still plenty of volunteers, though. The truly dedicated, or foolish, or desperate. Or, like Wade, those who sometimes risked it all for the right shot at a payoff.

WADE BLINKED, FINDING HIS eyelids reluctant to open. Warmth moved up the length of his body, beginning in his legs. For a desperate moment he struggled to breathe, but at last his lungs found their strength and sucked in air. A great shiver shook him, and he bumped his head.

“Please stand by, stasis reversal underway.” The onboard computer systems seemed to have survived in one piece, at least.

He struggled to recall his last thoughts. The money? Oh yeah, the money. It wouldn’t do him any good now. Of course, he’d actually given much of his new wealth away to family. He couldn’t very well ask for that back. And it was too late anyway. He wondered if anyone related to him even still lived. Two hundred years just passed and I feel like it was only a moment.

“Administering adrenaline boost.” His heart raced, leaping into a sudden sprint after years suspended. It felt like a small animal was trying to force its way through his ribcage.

After a few minutes the pounding in his chest seemed to level out. His thoughts were clearer. He smiled. “Well,” he said in a croaking voice. “I seem to have beaten the odds. Maybe my luck’s finally turned again.”

The lid of his lifepod raised with a hiss and the whir of servos. “Process complete. Please disembark.” Bright light assaulted his eyes, wiping the smile from his face.

“Your bedside manner could use some work, you know that?” He struggled to a sitting position, every muscle protesting.

He was inside a dome of heavy plasticized canvas, about 100 meters across. Bots did their job. So far so good. A large LED lamp shed white light throughout the dome, but did not totally dispel the red glow that penetrated the canvas from outside. The effect created a rosy hue. That’s right, the star is red.

Wade looked around. Four other lifepods sat under the dome, three with lids raised. The pod nearest to his own was still closed. Groggy grumbles emanated from the open pods, but the closed pod remained still. An airlock was set into the far wall of the dome, and crates of supplies and equipment were scattered about the canvas floor. The air smelled like rubber and plastic.

Strong wind buffeted the dome, but it held. Wade remembered something about a tidally-locked orbit and thick atmosphere, but he hadn’t paid much attention to that sort of detail during the brief preparation for the trip.

He crawled out of his pod with awkward stiffness, spilling over its edge and landing in a heap on the ground. After a moment to catch his breath, he hauled himself onto unsteady feet. Everything felt heavier than he expected. Looks like I’m the first one up.

Stiff legs carried him to the closed pod near him. Curious, he tapped on it. “Anyone awake in there?”

“System failure,” a synthesized voice from the pod repeated, over and over.

Wade shrugged then gave the pod a solid smack, bringing a grimace to his face as his hand throbbed with unanticipated pain.

“Emergency locks released. Manual pod extraction enabled.”

“Manual extraction? You mean, lift the lid?” Wade tugged on the lid, moving it barely a centimeter before its weight proved too much and slipped from his grip. “Guess that’ll require a few more folks to lift.”

A muffled cry from within the closed pod stirred a sense of urgency in him. He cast his eyes over the other pods, spotting a hand emerging from one. He hurried over, grabbed the man inside by the wrist, and hauled on his arm.

“What’re you doing, you madman?” the man inside protested. “Trying to break my arm off at the shoulder?”

Wade let go. “Uh, no. There’s an emergency. I think.”

“What’re you talking about? Is there a fire or something?” The man sat up blinking.

“No, no fire. I think someone’s trapped inside their pod. Over there.” Wade pointed at the closed pod. “I tried to lift the lid but it was too heavy. Everything feels heavy.”

“Heavy, right. We’re at 140% of Earth gravity here, remember? Help me get out.”

Wade helped steady the man as he emerged awkwardly from his pod, then pulled him stumbling toward the closed pod. “Here, I can’t open the lid alone.”

“What makes you think we should open it?” the man asked, skeptical.

“I heard someone in there, and the computer said we needed to open it manually,” Wade explained. “I’m Wade, by the way.” He extended a hand, holding it out awkwardly until the other man finally shook it.

“Devon.”

“Ok, you ready?” Wade positioned himself on one end, then waited as Devon shuffled over to the other end. Once Devon was in position, Wade lifted. The lid seemed more manageable. Perhaps it was Devon’s aid, or that he had been moving about and waking up his muscles.

He let out a small gasp as he looked inside. A gaunt woman lay there, bones apparent even through her biosuit. The skin of her face hung loose and thin, creating a skeletal visage. Hair had grown out several feet from her head, though it was matted and tangled.

She was alive.

Her voice a hoarse whisper, she said, “I don’t feel right. Is it supposed to feel like this?” Wade looked at Devon, not knowing what to say. “I don’t,” he began, but trailed off.

Devon said, “Something went wrong with your pod.” He returned Wade’s uneasy look. “You’ve... aged.”

“I don’t think I can move. I can’t move!” She struggled, attempting to rise, but failed.

“Administering adrenaline boost.” The pod’s computer announced.

“What? It’ll kill her! Quick, we’ve got to get her out!” Wade reached into the pod, grabbing her under the shoulders. He pulled, but her bioports were still connected to the pod and he couldn’t dislodge her.

Her breaths became desperate clawing sounds and her eyes disappeared behind clenched lids. Wade continued to struggle with her. “We need something to cut her biosuit off. Help me!”

Her breathing ceased abruptly. “Wade, it’s too late. Look at her, she’s gone.”

Wade let go, arms dropping uselessly. He sagged to the floor, overwhelmed. “Damn.”

FOUR OF THEM HAD survived the journey—two men and two women. They had supplies that were supposed to last five people for four months, two construction bots, surveying systems, agriculture equipment, and their pods.

Their job was to set up a permanent base, establish a beacon to Earth, and investigate what local resources could be exploited by future missions. Wade figured the bots could do most of that. If they were successful, more people from Earth would follow. At least, that was the idea. They’d been given a secondary goal as well—search for other seed groups on the chance there had been other lucky survivors.

Wade leaned against his closed pod, listening as Devon argued with the two women, Kala and Tiel.

Devon had assumed a leadership role, or was attempting to anyway. “I’m telling you it’s too dangerous. We’ve got to stay put and run more tests. It will take time!”

“We’ve run through the basic tests,” Kala replied. “There’s oxygen out there. Enough to breathe. We’ll go crazy just sitting around under this dome. And besides, there’s work to do!”

“There could be pathogens. Toxins. Who knows what!”

“Let’s find out. We can’t waste any more time. Tiel agrees with me.” Kala looked at Tiel, who responded with a shy nod.

“You can’t just... you could be putting all of us in danger by going out there. Think this through, Kala. We’ve got to be careful. We’ve already lost someone. Are you the one who’s going to go out there and breathe that air? Are you ready to end up like her?” Devon gestured at the pod which housed their deceased companion. “Or maybe Tiel, is she going?”

Kala blew out an exasperated breath, then shook her head. Her eyes settled on Wade.

“What?” Wade asked.

“What? What about you, Mr. Quiet? You’ve hardly said a word since I woke up. What do you think?”

What do I think? I think I have a lot of regrets right about now.

When Wade didn’t respond, Kala approached him. “If we’re going to accomplish our mission, or better yet even survive, we need everyone to help. What do you say, Wade?”

Wade looked at each of the others in turn, then over at the airlock. “Well, I suppose it’s time to roll the dice. I’ll go out.”

WADE STEPPED INTO THE airlock, closing the inner door behind himself. Pumps cycled the air, then the external door rolled away. Thick, muggy atmosphere poured into the airlock, saturating his skin, eyes and hair. He stepped out onto alien soil. He’d held his breath, lips pressed tight, waiting until he felt ready. Now or never.

He exhaled first, then drew in a breath. It smelled swampy and faintly bitter, and made him cough. It was thick in his lungs, more dense than his body was accustomed to. He drew another breath and coughed some more, trying to get used to the air and expecting to faint.

The communicator clipped to his belt crackled. “Wade? Wade, are you alive?”

He unclipped the communicator, then started to speak, “Yeah Kala I’m—gah, my voice!” His voice was deep. Very deep, like some beast of the ocean depths.

“The air is denser, and there are heavier gases present than just the nitrogen we’re used to on Earth. Your voice will be deeper.”

“I sound creepy. Uh. Heh. Maybe I could get used to this. Anyway, I can breathe, I think. Gimme a minute.” He put the communicator back on his belt and took a moment to look around.

Scorched ground surrounded the dome, due to their landing vehicle, he guessed. About 50 meters out, dense foliage grew. It was dark in color, perhaps black. The sky was a pale red, like a sunset gone haywire. A strong breeze blew his hair back.

He walked away from the dome. As he left the scorched ground, he headed toward the vegetation. There was no grass, instead a covering of something more like leafy clover softened his footfalls. Waist-high plants with black leaves grew thick. Hmm. Could there be space lions in there?

He decided he’d gone far enough and stopped to take a few of the leaves. They were broad and thick, almost like plastic dinner plates. He had to pull with both hands to remove them, taking four. For good measure, he stooped and plucked a few of the clover-like plants from the ground.

He headed back toward the dome, feeling a bit like some famous explorer from Earth’s past. That wasn’t so bad, but I think that’s enough adventure for now.

“HOW DO WE KNOW he’s not infected with alien plague?” Devon looked at Wade, arms crossed. “He could be exposing all of us.”

“Yeah, he could. But if this planet is crawling with plague, I’d rather find out sooner than later,” Kala replied. “We could always have him get into his pod. Its systems should be able to detect if he’s sick.”

Wade shrugged. “Leaves. I brought leaves.” Brilliant, professor.

Tiel ran forward, taking the leaves from Wade. “Alien life! This is amazing. Blue leaves!”

“Huh, I thought they were black,” Wade said.

Tiel looked closely at each leaf. “They’d probably look black under red light. The white light of the dome lets us see it in true color.” She gasped. “Look! There’s some kind of animal on the underside of this one!”

“This is insane,” Devon said. “Get rid of it!”

“I think it must be some kind of herbivore. Look, it’s got mandibles like a caterpillar,” Tiel said.

“Ok, can you at least move it to a specimen jar or something? Can’t we pretend to take some kind of precaution?” replied Devon.

“Fine. Here.” Tiel dropped the animal into a plexiglas container. It was small, with a round shell. It looked like a blue pebble.

Kala said, “Let’s feed the leaves to the material analyzer. See what they’re made of.”

“And whether we can eat them?” asked Tiel.

“Yeah, maybe so.”

A FEW DAYS LATER, they had data.

“The leaves, the animals, the soil, it’s all poison,” Kala said.

“How poisonous are we talking?” Wade asked.

“Potassium cyanide,” Tiel replied. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Wade looked at Devon, eyebrows raised. “Is that bad?”

“Yeah, hard to imagine much worse. You know all those old spy movies where the double-agents commit suicide with a pill? Potassium cyanide. One bite of those leaves would make a permanent end to all your troubles.”

“So can we grow our own food that’s not poisonous?” Wade asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Kala replied.

Tiel shook her head. “I doubt it. The environment is pretty saturated with it. Even if our crops could survive, which I doubt, they’d be tainted. I think we’re stuck.”

“So you mean...” Wade began.

“She means we’ve got four months of food, and then we’ve got nothing. If we’re careful we can stretch that a bit further. But we will eventually run out of supplies,” Devon said. “We are going to starve.”

“I see,” Wade said.

“You see? That’s it? You don’t care?” Kala asked.

“I didn’t want to be here. This trip was a mistake. A mistake I made, I admit, but... I don’t know. I suppose I’ve been expecting something like this to happen all along. Now that it has, well, I guess I’m just not all that surprised.”

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Kala said.

Tiel replied, “We’ve already done it. The beacon to Earth is set up and transmitting. Future generations will be interested in what’s here, even if it’ll be years before the data reaches home. We’ve found life on another world! It’s historic.”

Devon frowned. “And in the meantime, we at least try to get some of our seeds to grow. Maybe we can get lucky?”

Wade chuckled. “If luck is involved, then I’m betting things are about to get worse.”

Kala rolled her eyes. “What about getting back in our pods? With the beacon set up, maybe Earth will send help. We sleep another hundred years or so, and wake up when help has arrived.”

“Those things are deathtraps! And what if they run out of power?” Devon asked.

Tiel replied, “The half-life of the Uranium-235 power source in these pods is 700 million years. They consume very little energy while we’re in stasis, so they should be good for... a very long time. As for the risk of death, we have no supplies after four months. What then?”

“Then we’ve no other choice,” Kala said.

The group was quiet for several minutes. Finally, Wade broke the silence. “I’m all in.”

Tiel moved to her pod and climbed in with a smile. Devon shook his head, but moved off to his pod as well.

“I guess this is goodbye for a century, then,” Kala said to Wade.

“Actually, I think I’m going to make a long bet.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking in 100 years we’d wake up and find nothing has changed. I think I’ll just set my pod to wake me once help has arrived. Whenever that happens to be.”

“Are you serious? You know you might never wake up.”

“Seems to me it doesn’t make much difference. So if it’s all right with you, when you’re up in a century just leave me be. Unless Earth has sent help, of course.” He chuckled. “And for what it’s worth, I do hope I see you again.”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out. Goodbye Wade.” Kala turned away, headed for her pod.

“So long.” Wade walked to his own pod, then climbed in. The lid closed, and he tried to make himself comfortable. Knowing what he was in for made it feel routine. “I guess the next words I hear when I wake will be ‘stasis reversal underway,’ eh computer?”

WADE WOKE TO PAIN, like every inch of his body had been rubbed with sandpaper. He drew breath, shuddering at the tearing sensation that accompanied each lungful.

His pod’s computer sounded distant and lower in pitch, as though drained of energy. “Power failure imminent, emergency stasis reversal.”

“Power failure?” he asked. His voice was faint and weak.

“Primary fuel depleted. Stasis reversal using emergency backup.”

“Fuel supposed to last...” Wade paused to cough, which was murderously painful but seemed to help. “Would last... Computer, what’s the elapsed time since I entered stasis?”

“2.1 million years. Administering adrenaline boost.”

The expected shock from the stimulant never came. Perhaps some system within the pod had failed. The revelation of the elapsed time, however, was a shock in itself.

“Million years? Computer, has the pod’s chronometer failed?”

“Chronometer function normal. Process complete, please disembark.”

Wade expected the lid of his pod to rise, but it did not move. A few clicks passed up and down the length of the pod, as though stripped gears struggled to turn. Then liquid began to leak into the pod.

“Computer! What’s happening?” he cried, alarmed. There was no response.

The leak became a steady stream, filling the space around him with cool liquid. Wade began to panic, lifting his arms to pound against the lid. He was unable to raise it. A sudden instinctual insight prompted him to draw a deep breath as the last of the pod’s volume filled with water.

The lid drifted open, releasing Wade into dark water. He flailed uselessly, already desperate to exhale. The buoyant material of his biosuit lifted him steadily, providing some notion of direction.

Got to reach the surface!

His lungs burned, and Wade knew it wouldn’t be long before the impulse to draw breath would overpower him. He clamped his mouth shut, clenching teeth and eyelids as he struggled to kick. Water rushed by as he streamed upward, aided by the biosuit.

He coughed. Reflex took over and water rushed into his mouth, nose, and throat. He gagged, tried to cough again, and clawed for the surface in panic.

The muted underwater sounds of his thrashing gave way to splashes as he broke the surface, coughing up water and retching until he blacked out.

WADE CAME TO, FACE down in firm plant growth. Waves lapped over his legs and feet. He rolled onto his back, coughing.

His biosuit was torn across the midsection, flapping in a gentle wind. He stared at the pink sky. “Two million years. I don’t believe it.” He pushed up into a sitting position, earning a dizzy swoon.

He sat on the shore of a large lake or sea. Not far from him, black vegetation grew. Unlike the leaves he’d seen before, the growth looked like large umbrellas or domes on thick stalks. The bitter swampy smell he recalled from before was absent, replaced by a clean freshness.

“Well that much has changed. Still nothing to eat I suppose.”

After a few minutes he felt strong enough to try standing. It took him a few tries, but eventually he found his legs would support his weight. As he turned to get a full view of his surroundings, he received his second shock of the day.

Tall buildings gleamed in the distance. Steel and glass glinted in the rosy light, looking like something out of a fantasy. The architecture was rounded and sturdy, somewhat resembling the dark plants around him.

A city? People? Could they be human? Do humans even exist anymore?

There was one way to find out. Wade squared his shoulders and set off on unsteady legs toward the structures towering in the distance. “Time for one last gamble.”

About the Author

Jeff Sullins works in the software industry in Denver Colorado, daydreaming about blizzards and dragons. He’s growing old chasing after his two children, but perhaps the exercise does him good.

A former musician, game designer, and programmer, he regularly makes plans and discards them. To write the stories that need to be told has been his desire for decades, though it’s only within the last five years that he’s begun to take it seriously. 

RAGE AGAINST THE

DYING OF THE LIGHT

ELIZABETH RUBIO

THE HEADACHE BEGAN AT dinner, no more than a pinprick of pain behind my eyes. I tried to dismiss it as an effect of the wine, but of course my body was having none of it. By the time the bards were taking their places during the last course, the auras were beginning to dance in front of my eyes. I signaled to Megat, my Flamekeeper, and she called a messenger, who sped out of the dining hall to call the heralds.

Megat escorted me to the blessings chamber, leading me blindly the last several yards as my vision gave way entirely to the auras. Her touch by then was a miasma of pain, but I endured it. Being lost inn this misery would be far worse. I heard the preparations as the pages lit the fires in the ceremonial chamber, and curled into myself in agony as I settled into the freezing sheets on the bed. The fires, always part of my power ceremonies, would at least put out some warmth. It would reach me soon enough, I knew. I gritted my teeth against the chattering and squeezed my eyes shut against the pain.

I hoped, given the late hour, this ailment would be lightly attended. I should have known better. The lateness of the hour meant that entire families were freed from work and had no more pressing matters to attend to. I hadn’t even laid back on the pillows before the first blessing seekers arrived. I heard rather than saw them, the sound of their shuffling feet over the flagstone floor like daggers through my now-throbbing head. They crowded close as Megat pulled the blankets over me. I quickly pushed the bedclothes away. My skin already prickled violently under the lightest touch; the heavy weight of the blankets was unbearable. I grimaced quietly to myself, doing my best not to let my expression betray my emotions. I was clearly in for a long night.

Blessing seekers continued to arrive over the next hour as my condition worsened. Their murmured prayers created a torturous susurrus that drummed loudly on my ears. I gripped the edge of the blankets, pulling them into my fists, and gritted my teeth against the noise. Bright colors I had no names for danced before my eyes, making pinwheels and radiating bursts of light and shadow, eclipsing my vision. The pain in my head tightened to a nauseating degree, and I regretted that I had eaten heartily at dinner.

An infant’s wail suddenly pierced the low mutterings of the pilgrims, and my world upended like a ship in a storm. I groped for the edge of the bed as the waves of nausea crashed over me. I retched blindly, hoping my fluids hit the floor and not the townspeople gathered in the chamber. I gasped for breath as the nausea subsided, and felt a cool cloth against my forehead and cheeks. I recognized Megat’s light touch behind it.

“Lie back when you can, love. That’s it now.” Her voice was quiet and calm, reassuring. “They’ve taken the babe away for now.”

“Did the mess hit anyone?”

“Oh yes, several people. They’re quite pleased.”

Did I hear her wrong? “They gain no benefit by being vomited on.”

“It makes them feel special. Touched by the divine. You know.” I could hear the grin she was trying to suppress.

I smiled despite the pain and nausea. “They can hear you, you know.”

“Oh, I know. Maybe they’ll be inclined to wash if I say it a little louder.” Megat refreshed the cloth with cool water and laid it against my forehead. “Get some rest now, Hallestal. Your power still flows even if you’re asleep.”

“I know.” I sighed. “It’s not that easy.” My head throbbed, as though my brain were beating its way through my skull. “The headache doesn’t want me to rest.” I closed my eyes anyway, hoping sleep would afford me at least a bit of a reprieve. Slowly, I felt myself sink into the welcoming depths of unconsciousness.

When I woke I judged a lot of time had passed, both by the absence of the crowds and by the golden light filtering in through the windows. I blinked and glanced around the now-empty chamber. The colors of the prayer banners adorning the walls were muted in the morning light, and beyond the oaken door I heard the sounds of the imperial residence preparing to meet the day. I sat up and pushed aside the sheets, still damp with sweat. My mouth was thick with foulness, but my head was clear and my vision had returned to normal. I glanced around and spotted Megat asleep on a cot at the foot of the bed. Her duties did not include sleeping in the ceremonial chamber, but Megat had always chosen to remain nearby in case I had need of her as the ailment faded.

I quietly rose, careful not to wake her. No doubt she’d had a late night, even if I had slept. Her duty was not only to tend me, but to keep the crowds who clustered around me from pushing or making too much noise. No easy feat.

Barefoot, I crept across the stone floor to the copper ewer in a corner of the large chamber. I splashed cool water over my face and neck, then rinsed my mouth of its muck. I then pushed open the door of the chamber to find a young page outside.

“Please, fetch breakfast for two.” I slid my tongue over my still-tangy mouth. “With mint, if you would.”

“Right away, mistress.” He nodded and bolted away, no doubt grateful for a task.

Turning back to the chamber, I found Megat rising from her cot, stretching and rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Sorry,” I said, coming to sit beside her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No worries.” She smiled. “I’ve slept enough.”

“I sent for breakfast.”

“Good. I don’t think you kept anything from dinner down.”

“I think you’re right. I’m ravenous.” My stomach gurgled loudly in confirmation. “How did it go after I fell asleep?”

“Well enough.” Megat ticked off her count on her fingers. “Two cripples walked again, an old blind man had his sight restored, three people were cured of ailing joints, and that baby stopped crying. We’ll hear of resolutions to business and marital troubles over the next few days, I expect.”

“There’s always a baby,” I moaned. Megat chuckled. “Any candidates among those seeking blessings?”

Megat looked away, and began tugging at a curl of hair.

“Meg?” I prompted.

“No, I didn’t find any.” She rose and headed for the door. “Where is that breakfast? I’m starving.”

“Meg,” I said sternly, “did you even look? Did you ask anyone about their abilities? If their fevers coincide with miracles and wonders?”

Megat’s shoulders slumped. She turned back to face me, but didn’t return to the bed. “It seems you’ve guessed that I didn’t.”

I sighed, as much in resignation as in frustration. “I know it’s not easy, but you have to start looking. I’m nearing my thirty-sixth year. You know I can’t last much longer.”

“Well, when the time comes, I’ll see that someone is found.” Megat thrust out her chin and sat back beside me, rubbing a hand across my neck and shoulders. “There’s no rush.”

“There is, and you know it.” Much as I wanted to pull away, to make her be serious, her massaging hand felt wonderful. I let the silence linger as she worked the knots out of my muscles.

Finally, I spoke. “You shouldn’t wait until the gods take me. My power will transfer more easily if I am still alive to help it. And I can help ensure that the candidate is truly gods-chosen.”

“Transfer your power?” Meg’s tone was opaque. “You say it so lightly. As though it’s simply handing something off.”

“Well, in a way, it is.”

Meg made a noise of derision. “Your life, you mean. With your power flows your life.”

“And my burden.” I studied my hands, the skin thin and so pale the latticework of veins was clearly visible. “Many people fall ill. Few people are chosen by the gods to make that illness a conduit for their power.”

“I know.” Meg’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “That’s why I can’t bear to look for the next Light. To the people, you’re a totem, a means to an end. And so it will be with the next, and on and on, forever.” She turned my face toward her, and I saw tears standing on the edge of her eyelids. “They don’t see you as human. They don’t see you at all.”

Her tears spilled over, making silvery streaks down her cheeks. I pulled her to me and pressed a kiss against her forehead, and she wept openly into my shoulder.

When her sobs had quieted to the occasional sniffle, she sat back up and dried her eyes. Just in time, for the knock at the door announced that our breakfast had arrived. I thanked the page and brought the tray to Meg.

“Have some breakfast, cheer up, and tell me what you’re wearing to the ball on Feast Night.”

Breakfast and a discussion of our ball gowns did, indeed, cheer Megat up considerably. I decided to save further conversation of the next Light for another day. No need to tarnish the faint happiness she could find, I reasoned.

OLIMAR’S FEAST DAY WAS unseasonably cool, with snow threatening to hamper the festivities of the evening. Even so, in late afternoon four ladies’ maids arrived at the suite Megat and I shared to help us prepare for the ball. Our regular chambers were far from the ceremonial room where I passed blessings from the gods to the people who came seeking healing and resolution. I made a conscious effort to leave my worries in that chamber and enjoy the upcoming celebration.

I leaned my head back against a bath basin and closed my eyes as one of the girls scrubbed heartily at my fingernails. I hoped she didn’t notice how bitten-down they were. I had been chewing them for the last several days, a nervous habit I’d had since childhood. But it had been more than a week since I had been taken by an ailment, which meant I was greatly overdue. The thought of missing the feast made me anxious and sad.

“You’re going to be fine.” Megat must have picked up on my mood. “You’ll eat until you burst and then we’ll dance until dawn. You’ll see.”

“Mmmph.” Eating until I burst didn’t seem like an especially good plan, whether dancing were to follow or not.

“Here, drink this. For…extra reassurance.”

I opened my eyes and raised my head. Megat held a cup out to me, steam rising from it. I sniffed.

“Willowbark tea?” I glanced at the maids, who had all gone quiet. “Megat, I can’t. Not even as a preventative.”

“Sh, Halle, it’s just chamomile. For your nerves.” Megat frowned meaningly at me. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

The maids, I noticed, were all exchanging furtive looks. If even rumors made their way to the Beacon that I was subverting my ailment, we’d all be in for a world of trouble.

“Thank you, Meg, but I’m fine.” I pushed the cup away. “Really.”

With a sigh, Megat turned and set the cup down. “If you change your mind, I’m still happy to get you some fresh tea.” She retreated to her own chamber, to wash and prepare for the evening.

HOURS LATER, MY SKIN rubbed raw from scrubbing, my scalp pulled tight from the complex hairstyle the maids had given me, I regarded my reflection in the mirror. The dress, measurements for which had been taken a scant four weeks ago, hung loosely on my shoulders. My shoulders themselves seemed angular and brittle, the skin covering them like thin parchment. My breasts didn’t fill their silken cups, and the taffeta sleeves swished abominably around my forearms. With my hair pulled back as it was, my cheekbones stood out as the widest part of my face. The gaunt hollows had taken on a paleness that only served to highlight the deepening shadows under my eyes. My lips curved inward over the places where many of my teeth used to be.

I scoffed at my reflection, ugly and haggard as it was. I knew what it heralded, even if Megat refused to acknowledge it. If she didn’t act soon, if a new Light was not found, I would succumb to the ailments, living out my last days in fever and pain instead of reveling in the glory of the passing of the Light. Turning away, I spied the teacup Meg had abandoned, still sitting where she left it.

I glanced back at the figure in the mirror, even more bony than it had been four weeks prior. In a rush, I decided that the poor, wretched girl deserved an enjoyable night. I strode quickly across the room and downed the willowbark tea in one gulp. It was cold, and I nearly choked as it hit my throat.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I raised my chin and strode confidently from the room.

THE GREAT HALL WAS lit brilliantly, not only with the sconces along the walls but also by the enormous chandeliers, five in total, that glimmered in their crystal decadence. Potted orange calianths added to the warm glow of the room. The walls were festooned with hundreds of prayer banners in every color of the rainbow. Glancing at a few, I recognized my own name, as many entreaties to Olimar included the hope that he would bless the supplicant through me.

I shook off this dreary thought as I gazed around the room. The long wooden tables were heavily laden already, and kitchen servants continued to scurry about, bringing in even more trays of food. The guests were dressed in their finest, although the early cold snap had ensured that many shoulders were now covered in furs and wool, muting the colors of the usually jewel-bright ball.

I threaded my way among the courtiers to the high table, where I saw Megat was already seated, looking resplendent in a velvet gown of bright blue, picked out with jewels along the neckline and cuffs. She was deep in conversation with the Beacon, who was seated to Megat’s left. Judging by the scowl on the Beacon’s face, Megat was not having a pleasant conversation.

I nodded to Her Holiness as I took my seat on Megat’s other side. Meg broke from their conversation to smile brightly at me.

“Halle, you look so wonderful! Your hair is a work of art. And that dress looks wonderful. Red truly is your color.”

“Thanks, Meg.” I looked past her. “Good evening, Your Holiness. I hope this Feast Night finds you well.”

“Well indeed, my Light.” The Beacon nodded to me. “You’re looking well yourself.”

“I am, thank you.”

“I hear it has been some days since your last ailment.” The Beacon shot a look at Megat that I couldn’t quite read. “I trust you still confer the blessing as often as possible.”

Ah. Word of the tea had made its way to the Beacon’s ears, then. Megat couldn’t have been more foolish, waving it about in front of those servants. That explained the scolding I had interrupted, at least.

“I remain, as always, the gods’ vessel.” I met the Beacon’s narrow gaze. “When they see fit to bless the people through me, of course it is my honor to allow it.”

“Of course. We are humbled by your service.” She raised her cup to me, and I nodded acknowledgment.

Megat glanced at me, but with the Beacon sitting so close, I couldn’t read her expression. No matter; there were piles of food in front of us, and for once, I wasn’t queasy. I piled as much as I could fit onto my plate and began to eat with gusto.

The musicians at the front of the hall soon switched from the quieter, more melodic numbers to lively quick tunes, and guests began to make their way to the center of the hall to dance as they finished eating. I watched them with some envy. Because of my delicate nature and the status I enjoyed in the Temple, I had never learned to dance.

Suddenly, Meg seized my hand and pulled me out of my chair. “What is it?” I asked.

“We’re going to go dance.” She was already leading me toward the dancefloor. I dug in my heels and pulled against her.

“Meg, I don’t know how to dance.”

“Nonsense. You never learned. It’s not the same thing.” Her eyes were shining. “You’ll love it, I promise. Come on.”

I glanced back at our table, where the Beacon sat frowning at us. It was enough to help me make up my mind. “Lead the way.”

On the dancefloor, people were engaged in a complicated sort of hopping dance. I recognized it as a midlands errack, a folk dance common to festivals and fairs. But their feet flew too fast for me to follow. I backed away.

“Will you stop stalling?” Meg dragged at my arm. “The steps aren’t important. Just…bounce to the beat. Like this.”

She bobbed up and down on her toes, her skirts swishing around her ankles. Placing her hands on my waist, she pulled me with her, until I was bobbing too. We drew some stares from the other dancers, but a few smiles as well. I giggled like a child. We bounced around the edge of the other dancers, grinning stupidly and receiving puzzled but pleasant grins in return.

The music swelled, and Megat twirled me in a circle. My skin was becoming damp with exertion; I hadn’t moved this much in years. Finally, with a loud twang, the song ended. Megat curtseyed to me. “Thank you for the dance, my Light.”

I laughed and pulled her to me for a hug. “Thank you, Meg.”

I let go of Megat and headed back to the table for a drink. Although the temperatures outside were cold, inside, where revelers packed the dancefloor and torches burned in every sconce, the heat had risen considerably. I gulped a long swig of cool mead and refilled my cup. Sweat trickled down my neck.

“Be careful not to overexert yourself,” the Beacon said, eyeing me. “Your body isn’t used to so much…excitement.”

I glared at her. “I think I know my body rather well, thank you.” I turned away and took another swig.

Megat, grinning widely, caught up to us. “Great idea,” she said, spying the cup in my hand. She gulped her own, and elbowed me lightly in the ribs. “You could be a good dancer, if you learned some steps, you know. Your sense of rhythm is great.”

“Thanks.” I fanned my face with my hand. “Worked up a real sweat.”

Meg nodded. “Dancing will do that.” She took another drink, and a crease appeared in her brow. “You okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re pale.” She pulled out my chair. “Here, sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.” The Beacon was one thing, but now Meg? “Come on, it’s hot in here. I’m going outside to cool off.” I set my cup on the table with a loud thunk and strode quickly out of the hall.

The blast of cold air when I opened the hall door wasn’t exactly the cool breeze I’d been wanting. In fact, it was painful, causing the joints in my shoulders and wrists to suddenly throb. I squeezed my eyes shut and slowed my steps, wrapping my arms around myself and rubbing them to warm up. They were still drenched in sweat.

I admitted to myself that perhaps Megat had a point. The Beacon, though, advising me on my own health, as if she didn’t have a stake in whether I was ill or not, had tested my limits of self-restraint. It was she, after all, who had found me as a candidate, when she was only a Flamekeeper herself. She had harnessed my body for the will of the gods, and now she sought to wrest the last it had to offer without even allowing me a single evening of enjoyment.

Without warning, I retched onto the cobblestones, doubled over, unable to breathe. My body spasmed over and over, bringing up the smorgasbord on which I had gorged myself. As my eyes streamed and I struggled to catch a breath, I deeply regretted indulging in such a large meal.

When the spasms finally stopped, I gasped, the taste of bile stinging my throat. I felt a gentle hand on my back, and careful fingers pulled the loose strands of hair away from my face.

“Oh, Hallestal.” Megat helped me stand and pulled me to her, cradling my head against her shoulder as I began to sob. “The gods give you no peace, do they?” She beckoned to the guards at the door of the banquet hall, and instructed them to carry me to my chambers. “Inform the Beacon,” she added. “It’s possible Hallestal merely had a bit too much drink and dancing, but we may need to light the Flame and call the blessing seekers.”

As the guard lifted me and picked his way carefully around the remains of my meal on the ground, I sobbed and cursed the gods who had chosen me for this fate.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, as the final blessing seekers left, still clad in their Feast Night finery, Megat bustled around the chamber, extinguishing all the lamps save for the one that hung near my bed. I watched her flit about the room, my emotions a whirl of admiration and anxiety. Megat had given up any dreams for herself in order to stay by me and care for me. I was subject to the whims of the gods, but Megat chose to leap into action the moment I fell ill, tending me as well as herding and shushing the blessing seekers as required. Of course, her duties as Flamekeeper didn’t end at my chamber door.

“Megat,” I began, “you’re running out of time. The candidates likely won’t walk in here on their own.” I frowned, remembering that my twice-removed predecessor had done exactly that, so devoted had he been. “Well, not all of them, anyway.”

“Yes, Halle, I know. The Beacon reminds me of it every day. I’ll get to it.”

“Between mopping my brow and fetching my water?” I gave her a half-smile. She pursed her lips at me.

“You do need to be looking, though. The signs usually appear around age five or six, so start with younger children, those who seem especially empathetic or emotional—”

Megat made a noise somewhere between a growl and a scream, pulling handfuls of hair from her head. Her eyes bulged in their sockets. I snapped my mouth closed, eyes wide.

“You have no idea, do you? You honestly think I could do this to a child?” Her chest heaved, and veins stood out in her neck.

“Meg, wha—”

“It’s–it’s inhuman, it’s disgusting! Watching you suffer, watching you die, for what, other people’s blessings?”

“It’s the gods’ will—”

“Curse the gods!” Megat looked at the ceiling, as though the gods could be found there. “You hear me, you beasts? You filthy vermin? Why can’t you just offer blessings, huh? Why must someone always pay a price?”

“Megat, hush, don’t talk like that!” Aside from the throbbing in my head the noise had caused, her blasphemy was truly alarming. “Come here, sit by me.” I patted the sheets next to me.

Megat looked at me, and I watched as she visibly fought to regain control over her breathing and emotions. She gulped water from the jug and plunked heavily onto the bed beside me. My head raged. I winced.

“Oh, love, I’m so sorry.” She wrung a cool cloth and set it on my forehead. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

I chewed my lip. “Meg, you scared me. You cursed the gods. What’s wrong with you?”

She pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring white. “Oh Halle, you idiot. You’re what’s wrong with me.”

I stared at her, nonplussed. “Me?”

“Why do you think I became a Flamekeeper?”

The question was so non sequitur I merely blinked. But she continued to peer at me with a look I couldn’t quite place. “To care for the Living Light?” I hazarded.

“Well, yes, I suppose.” She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “It was you. I saw you when I was fifteen, more than half a lifetime ago. Here at this very ball, in fact.”

I searched my memories. As a teenager I hadn’t made it to many balls; puberty and the ailments made for a rough decade for me. “I don’t remember that.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Megat looked down and smiled, as if reliving the day. “But you were so graceful, so ethereal. Your dress positively flowed around you, like mist in the morning. In that moment, I was yours.”

She looked up again, meeting my eyes. “Halle, I have loved you from the day I saw you. At first, it was mere infatuation, of course. That desperate desire drove me all the way through Flamekeeper training. But then I got to know you. I got to see how kind you are. How generous. How brilliant.” She took my hand. “I love you, Halle. I don’t want to lose you.”

I squeezed Meg’s hand. “Oh, Meg. I love you too.” She smiled widely. I sighed. “You’ve done so much for me. I truly can never repay you. But we both know my time is coming to an end. I have always known my life would be shorter than others’. You should have known, too.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It’s not fair.” She sniffled loudly. “You’ve suffered your whole life. You’ve given everything for others. And now you’ll die. For no reason.”

“No, that’s where you’re wrong.” I fought back tears of my own. “Because of me, the lame have walked. The blind have seen. The poor have found wealth, and the proud have found humility. And Meg…I’m tired.” I sighed. “If I don’t pass my power to the next Living Light, surrounded by worshippers and filled with the glory of the gods, my ailments will just get worse and worse, and longer and longer, until I die.”

I kissed her hand. “You’ve been the brightest thing in my life. You’ve shown me what love is. I am so grateful for you. I need you to help me now. Help me die like a true Light.”

Megat’s lip quavered, but she bit it and brushed tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know, Halle. I don’t know if I can let go. I want every possible moment with you.”

I took a deep, shuddering breath, and pulled the covers back. My gaze met Meg’s. For the first time in our lives, she crawled in next to me. Her arms settled around me as I rested my cheek against her chest.

“I’m sorry.” I stroked her arm with my thumb. “I’ve been so focused on my own pain, I never stopped to think about how it affected you. How hard all of this must be for you.”

She kissed the top of my head, nuzzling my hair. “As it should be, I suppose. That’s why I’m here. To make things easier for you. To carry burdens so you don’t have to.”

“In another life,” I said, “we would have grown old together. We would have lived normal lives. As, I don’t know, farmers or something.”

“Ugh, no, have you ever smelled a cow?” She made a noise of disgust. I chuckled. “Chandlers, maybe. Or jewelers.”

I sighed. “In this life, you’ll grow old without me. You’ll tend the next Living Light, and maybe the one after that.”

I felt her shake her head above me. “No. Not again. I can’t watch another person die for the gods.” She took a deep breath, making my head rise a bit. “I’ll begin looking for candidates tomorrow. And a new Flamekeeper.”

I took Meg’s hand and laced my fingers through hers. “What will you do when I’m gone?”

She was silent a long time, and I felt the trickle of tears on my head. Finally, she spoke, her voice thick. “I don’t know. I don’t think I will know until it happens.”

I searched for words to comfort her, but I couldn’t find any. Eventually, my eyes closed of their own accord. Wrapped in Meg’s embrace, I slipped into the black dark.

About the Author

Elizabeth Rubio writes sci-fi and fantasy in Austin, Texas, where being weird is considered an aspirational trait. This is her second publication, her first, Nevertheless, having appeared in Analog Science Fiction and Fact. She is a member of Austin’s Slug Tribe writers’ group, where Austin’s weirdest writers gather to share critique of bizarre stories.

THE CHANGED MAN

RICHARD ZWICKER

DA CAROLINA SOARES TOOK a seat in the filled courtroom. Middle age and fatigue had barely diminished her dark, attractive face. She had mixed feelings about The People vs. Jason Turner, something she did not want when doing her job. On the surface, the case was open and shut. Eight months ago a drug-addled Jason Turner shot and killed Tariq Lari during a robbery. Six months later, Turner surrendered to the police and confessed. Turner’s lawyer Angus Beetleman would dispute none of this. The area of contention would be the personality adjustment conducted on Turner in the interim. The defense would claim its client was a changed man, and therefore not responsible for the crime.

Soares was going through her own struggles about people changing. Last month her husband Gustavo admitted to a year-long affair, throwing her marriage into the impersonal hands of divorce lawyers. Gustavo insisted that she, not he, had changed as a result of her demanding career. “I’m not the one who broke his vows,” she said, but then, maybe she had. After two children, now both in college, did she still cherish and love her husband? Certainly not in the same way. Everyone changes, but that didn’t absolve them of their responsibilities. The defense in The People vs. Jason Turner would argue it did, so it was not a surprise to Soares when it chose Nathanael Corzine as its first witness. She willed herself to be the best person to prosecute this case.

“Please state your profession,” Beetleman said to the man in the witness seat. Beetleman wore a natty, expensive-looking gray suit, which obscured his short, dumpy body. His black curly hair had the uniform snarl of a poodle’s fur. Corzine looked about 50, with gray hair, a trim beard, and a soft, non-athletic body.

“I’m a PA, a personality adjuster.” Corzine said as clearly as a documentary film narrator. Corzine had made a name for himself as a tireless proponent of criminal rehabilitation through PA, a procedure he had spearheaded. Once a regular presence at protests against punitive incarceration, more recently he devoted his time to his operation. Though laws limited the degree of personality adjustment he could do on individual clients, the financial rewards had been significant.

“Could you tell the court exactly what a PA does?” asked Beetleman.

“I change people’s psychological traits,” said Corzine.

“And why would anyone hire you to do that?”

“We are all a mix of traits. I am able to increase the positive traits and diminish the negative ones.”

The lawyer paced slowly in front of the audience. “Sounds interesting. If my teenage son were failing all his classes, could you do anything for him?”

“I could increase his motivation. If that was the reason he was doing poorly in school, his performance would improve.”

“That’s amazing. It sounds as if you can totally change who a person is.”

“Objection! That’s not what he said,” Soares’s smooth Brazilian accent rolled off her words despite three decades in America.

“I’ll rephrase,” said Beetleman. He stood directly in front of Corzine. “In your opinion, can you change a murderer into a law-abiding citizen?”

“It depends. I’m restricted by what I have to work with. I’m not sure I could change Jack the Ripper into Jack the Gardener, but I’d be willing to try.”

“Did you operate on the defendant, Jason Turner?”

“Yes.”

“Whose idea was that?”

Corzine shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Turner’s. At first, I refused, but he threatened my family if I didn’t cooperate. Despite my lack of choice, I later came to see this as an opportunity to show the world the benefits of PA.”

“Could you, in layman’s terms, explain what you did for the defendant?”

“I took away his aggression, his addiction to controlled substances, and his low self-esteem. I replaced them with increased empathy, faith, and altruism.”

“Was the operation a success?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe Jason Turner will ever again commit a crime?” asked Beetleman.

“No, unless he had another treatment that reintroduced his negative traits.”

“Would you say the Jason Turner in this court room is a different man from the Jason Turner who committed murder and escaped from prison?”

“I would.”

“Objection!” said Soares. “Leading the witness!”

“Objection sustained,” said the stolid-faced elderly judge. “Strike the witness’s response from the record. Mr. Beetleman, watch yourself.”

Beetleman said that he had no more questions and sat down next to Turner, who watched the proceeding with curiosity. Soares rose and faced the witness.

“Mr. Corzine, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read many of your essays on prison reform. In recent years, however, it seems personality adjusting has eclipsed your career as a reformer, at least in terms of writing and protesting. How much did you earn last year as a PA?”

“It’s hard to say. I have an accountant that manages my affairs.”

“Would in excess of a million dollars be a conservative estimate?”

Corzine coughed. “You’d have to ask my accountant.”

“I would, but I’m sure you keep him or her busy. Let’s talk about what you do. I’m not an expert on personality adjustment, but from what you’ve told the court, it seems to be a very powerful procedure. Almost too good to be true. Can you tell me why we don’t just operate on every single ax-murderer, rapist, arsonist, and extortionist currently in jail and turn them into meek, bingo-playing members of a church guild?”

Corzine smiled, as if he expected the question. “My profession is controversial. Many believe we have no right to change a person’s personality.”

“Many believe it’s a sin to gamble or that social networking is the end of private life as we know it, but those things are still allowed, as is PA. So I repeat, why don’t you just change the personality of all prisoners?”

“I could, if funds could be found to pay me. It’s not a simple procedure. Plus, there are legal limits to the changes I can make.”

“What are those limits?”

“The government has adopted an evaluation scale, where a person’s pre-op personality is rated at 100%, based on emotions, memories, abilities—everything that contributes to personality. That cannot be changed by more than a factor of 10%.”

Soares folded her arms. “That doesn’t seem like much. Since I left law school I’ve probably changed more than that without your expensive procedure. What I don’t understand is how can you say Jason Turner is a different person as a result of your work if, according to law, he’s still 90% the same person?”

“Because in the case of Jason Turner, I made changes in excess of 10%.”

Soares hesitated. “You broke the law.”

“As I said, he threatened to kill me.”

“So we can add intent to murder to the resume of the man attorney Beetleman thinks we should release.” She didn’t want to ask the next question but if she didn’t, Beetleman would.

“What percent would you say you changed Jason Turner’s personality?” she asked.

“One hundred percent,” Corzine said.

“One hundred percent? Are you saying there is nothing left of the pre-adjusted Jason Turner?”

“No, he has his memories. But one hundred percent means I changed all his propensities, including the ones that made him commit this crime.”

IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS Beetleman interrogated the owner of a produce supply company, for whom Turner drove a delivery truck, a cook in the soup kitchen where Turner volunteered three nights a week, as well as a neighbor. All praised the defendant as honest, dependable, and affable. Soares didn’t have many questions for these witnesses, other than to confirm that Turner had lied about his name and kept his past a secret.

The prosecution, unable to find anyone since Turner’s adjustment with a negative word to say about him, focused on his past. Soares called the former warden of the prison Turner had spent time in, Turner’s cellmate, and the widow of Tariq Lari. They spoke of a dangerous, amoral man who should be locked up forever.

This relentless negativity left Turner shaken. At the start of a recess, in a voice loud enough for Soares to hear, he asked Beetleman, “How can they find me not guilty?”

“Soares needs to tie that person to you. We’ll make sure she can’t,” Beetleman answered.

DURING TURNER’S CROSS-EXAMINATION, Beetleman asked questions that demonstrated his client’s changed nature. On the courtroom widescreen he showed a picture of the man who murdered the pharmacist. That man had wild, shoulder-length hair, bushy eyebrows and a drooping mustache. A smirk disfigured his mouth and an unfocused gaze suggested intoxication. The contrast between that and the Jason Turner in the courtroom couldn’t have been starker. The long hair was now short and thinning, his face clean-shaven, his eyebrows trimmed. Perhaps the biggest difference was the eyes, which appeared to be searching and kind.

“Mr. Turner, why did you force Dr. Corzine to operate on you?” asked Beetleman.

Turner grimaced. “Part of me wanted to avoid prosecution. However, I was also tired of not being in control of my life. I didn’t want to be a thief and a drug addict, but I couldn’t help myself. I saw the PA operation as my last chance.”

Beetleman nodded. “What purpose do you believe would be served if you were returned to prison?”

“I understand the anger and frustration of those who knew and loved Tariq Lari. If I am found guilty, I will, of course, serve my sentence. That said, I don’t believe years of incarceration would have a positive effect on my rehabilitation. My only wish is to make the world a better place. If I have to do that inside a prison, so be it, but I can do much more good outside.”

“How?”

“As a positive role model, as someone who fully understands the consequences of criminal activity for the perpetrator, the victim, and society.”

“Could you be more specific?” Beetleman asked.

“I volunteer at a soup kitchen. I run an anonymous blog where I give encouragement and advice to ex-convicts.” He paused. “I go to church on Sundays.”

Beetleman thanked the defendant. With a slight smile, he turned to Soares. “Your witness.”

Soares rose slowly from her seat.

“Mr. Turner, according to my understanding of this procedure, you remember murdering Mr. Lari.”

“I’ll never forget it,” Turner said.

“It seems to me, defense is basing its case on the idea that you—as you are now—did not commit the crime. So, I just want to confirm this. Despite the alterations made on you, your memory of the event is unchanged.”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Do you remember why you committed the crime?”

“I needed money. I wasn’t thinking of the future. I hadn’t planned on hurting anyone.”

“Would it be correct to say that while your memory of the event was unchanged by the procedure, your view of it today has been?” asked Soares.

“Yes. I no longer see things as I did then.”

“Would you say that today everything you do is rational?”

“No. I’m just less likely to do something negative because I am a less negative person. Today I am aware of the effects my actions have on others and I can sympathize.”

“So you understand why friends and relatives of Mr. Lari would like to see you pay for your crime.”

“Yes.”

Soares gave Turner a long look. He met her eyes, smiling wanly.

“Your fingerprints and your memories are the same as the person who murdered an innocent man,” she said. “You said you go to church on Sundays. Do you believe you have a soul?”

“I do.”

“Do you believe the soul you have today and the soul you had when you killed Tariq Lari are separate?”

The courtroom was silent. “I’m still trying to understand what a soul is,” said Turner.

Soares nodded. “Is it your belief that you and the murderer of Tariq Lari are separate people, in the same way that you and I are separate people?”

Turned hesitated. “I guess that’s for the court to decide.”

Soares let his answer hang in the air. “I agree. Prosecution rests.”

It was late in the afternoon. The judge dismissed everyone for the day in preparation for closing statements.

THE NEXT MORNING, BEETLEMAN addressed the court.

“In any criminal case, we are faced with questions. In The People vs. Jason Turner, many of the basic questions were answered before the trial began. Someone named Jason Turner killed Tariq Lari during the commission of a robbery. Someone named Jason Turner forced Dr. Corzine to conduct an illegal PA operation. I submit to you that someone else named Jason Turner sits before you today. We’d like every murderer to pay for his or her crime. In this case, that is not possible. Jason Turner, murderer, no longer exists. We could send Jason Turner, a sympathetic man who wishes nothing but the best for everyone, to prison in his place, but what would that accomplish? It wouldn’t rehabilitate him, for this Jason Turner has done nothing wrong. It might appease those that cry for justice, just as sending anyone to prison for the crime might appease. But I would hope we are beyond the days when police, unable to come up with the perpetrator, round up the usual suspects. I think the overarching question in this trial is, what is the purpose of prison? To rehabilitate? This man is rehabilitated. Is it to keep a dangerous man off the street? This man poses no danger to anyone. Is it to feed our lust for an eye for an eye? The court is supposed to be the one place where we evaluate people and their acts rationally, in an unbiased manner. An eye for an eye is a negative, destructive desire. It is particularly out of place in evaluating Jason Turner, who doesn’t have a negative or destructive thought in his head. We need good men, now more than ever. Please return Mr. Turner to his home, so he can continue to make the world a better place.”

Beetleman brushed a tear from his eye as he returned to his seat. Next to him, Turner fidgeted, and the members of the audience coughed, a few whispering to their neighbors. Soares allowed Beetleman’s statements to settle, then approached the midway point of the floor separating audience and jury. She took a deep breath and faced the audience.

“Technological advances are wonderful things. I’m grateful to live in a time of bullet-trains, smart cars, and state-of-the-art medical care. It’s a bit dizzying, however. I try to keep up with everything, but my ten-year-old nephew understands these things better than I do. According to my esteemed colleague, Nathanael Corzine can transform bad people into good. This may be the future, but I’m not sure it’s the present. The one purpose of law that Mr. Beetleman did not address, because it didn’t suit his purpose, was deterrence. What happens to our society if every time someone commits a heinous crime, individuals such as Nathanael Corzine operate on them and turn them into—as he likes to say—a different person? Like magic, the evil person is gone, replaced by a good citizen. The fact is, we are all changed by the passage of years. But what about the crime? What is the repercussion if we don’t punish Jason Turner? I’ll tell you: anyone can do anything and not be punished for it. We will become a nation of opportunists. And what if after we operate on a murderer and let him go free, he commits another murder? It wouldn’t be the first time that desperation, greed, or fear caused a supposedly good person to commit a serious crime. Do we do another operation, tell him to behave himself, and send him on his way? Do you want to live in that kind of society, where a sadistic thug can kill your son or daughter with impunity? I don’t, and I’m sure the survivors of Tariq Lari’s family don’t either. Jason Turner said he wasn’t thinking about tomorrow or the repercussions when he committed murder. He wasn’t thinking about responsibility or fairness. He was thinking only of himself. It is the duty of the court to hold criminals responsible for their crimes. That’s justice. Without it, our society breaks down and we lose everything. Together we can make sure that does not happen. Thank you.”

After Soares sat down and the jury was dismissed for deliberations, the reserve of the audience broke down. Opinions about the case fell like shots in a paintball war. A portion of the audience favored the prosecution, seeing the defense’s argument as more unwarranted leniency toward criminals. Others noted the humble, caring demeanor of Jason Turner and wondered how prison might change all that. After a few minutes the audience settled into tapping on their phones.

Soares grabbed a coffee and called her divorce lawyer. Her husband and his attorney were still weighing Soares’s offer. She wondered if a personality adjustment might have saved her marriage. If the doubts, the restlessness, the recriminations could be eliminated somehow, could those battered old feelings of love thrive again? Could she forgive his transgression? Could she forgive the harsh words neither could never take back? She didn’t see how.

When the jury was unable to come to a decision on The people vs. Jason Turner that day, the judge announced the proceedings would resume at 9:00 the next morning.

AS THE COURTROOM FILLED up, a distraught Turner sat next to his attorney and asked, “Can I change my plea?”

Beetleman looked at his client as if he were insane. “To what?”

“Guilty. I shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this.”

“Jason, let the court decide. That’s what it’s for.”

It wasn’t in Turner’s nature to argue.

After about ninety minutes, a message was sent to the judge. A verdict had been reached. As the jury filed in, its members seemed liberated, arms swinging, a few smiles. The foreman handed a piece of paper to the judge, who read it, then handed it back. He asked the foreman to read the verdict.

“In The people versus Jason Turner, we, the jury, find the defendant innocent of all charges.”

Turner’s body drooped, while Beetleman patted him on the shoulder. The lawyer then offered condolences to Soares. “Allow me to offer a last piece of evidence that didn’t make it into the trial. This morning my client told me that he wanted to change his plea to guilty, that he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this. I convinced him to let the court decide. That’s how innocent he is.”

She shook her head, the toll of the case weighing on her face. “I think we’re going to see more of this kind of defense. Congratulations for being on the cutting edge once again.”

Dr. Corzine approached Jason Turner and shook his hand. “You can’t beat this kind of advertising. If any of your former friends need some changes, send them my way.”

Turner looked confused. “I don’t have contact with those kind of people anymore.”

Corzine smiled. “That’s OK. I have a feeling they’re going to have contact with me.” He noticed Soares’ glare and his smile vanished. He nodded and walked away.

As Corzine left the courthouse, a reporter asked him if verdict was a financial windfall for Corzine and the field of personality adjustment. He looked at the camera and said, “Social justice is my sole reward.”

About the Author

Richard Zwicker is an English teacher living in Vermont, USA, with his wife and beagle. His short stories have appeared in “Penumbra,” “T. Gene Davis’s Speculative Blog,” “Perihelion Science Fiction,” and other semi-pro markets. Two collections of his work, “Walden Planet and other stories” and “The Reopened Cask and other stories” are available on Amazon. Besides writing and reading, his hobbies include playing the piano, jogging, and fighting the good fight against middle age. Though he lived in Brazil for eight years, he is still a lousy soccer player.

SALVAGER

RACHEL LINN

THE SKY ABOVE THE landward horizon, hazy-bright, made Anna think of powdered orange juice beginning to dissolve in water. This, in turn, brought the memory of her small children sitting around the scarred wooden table in their old apartment, intently stirring clumps of government-issue vitamin C powder into their cups. The citrus powder was the color of ash, but still held the scent of oranges. Later, on the phone, she mentioned the sky to her youngest son, forgetting that he was too young to have seen artificial food coloring, and he replied flatly, “It’s the forests burning. The smoke bends the light.”

Glancing now and again through the portholes laced with ripples of drying salt, Anna carefully washed her cup, bracing herself against the counter as the houseboat rolled with the tide, then holding the glass up to the light to admire hints of rainbow contained within it. It was the last of a crystal set she had inherited from a nearly-forgotten aunt. When she turned off the faucet, the soapy wastewater cycled back into the clear pipes above her head, through the filter, and around again to the section that emptied into the sink. Though she had lived in the houseboat for over a year, she still cringed at the sight of cloudy water leaving and returning.

Anna had learned to avert her eyes, as she did now, watching her own hands drying the glass on the edge of her utility apron and placing it securely in one of the cylindrical storage holes in the counter. Then she walked a few feet across the floor to the front door, which faced away from the land, opened it, and held onto the frame to keep her balance. She looked out at the skyscrapers, and at the upside down versions of these buildings reflected in the sea, and down the corridors of derelict offices, where green-tinged pencils, three-ring binders, qwerty keys, and multicolored plastic paperclips drifted back and forth against the intact walls of windows under the influence of the tides.

Anna couldn’t always tell what was underneath the water or above it, on the other side of a window’s glass or drifting in front of it. She liked the possibility she was mistaken in what she thought she saw or knew. Beyond the buildings, the white-tipped waves warned of a sleepless night.

DURING THE FIRST WAVE of punitive relocation, Anna had received a bright orange digital card flashing across her communications screen, notifying her that her apartment was being reclaimed for the benefit of the public. At first she thought she had won a preferred employment or housing upgrade lottery. Then she read the more detailed instructions that followed; how to report to a relocation center, which personal belongings she was allowed, and a description of her future involuntary service at sea. Debris retrieval and disposal. Light industrial. Failure to report for relocation and reassignment would mean immediate cancellation of her food and medical rations, though it was stated so pleasantly that and it took her a couple of times scrolling up and down and rereading the small print to understand.

Anna had seen an animated video of the houseboats on the news that showed them jostling against each other and the surrounding skyscrapers like toy blocks in a bathtub, and decided that she would rather not move, in spite of the promise of a working coolant system and safe drinking water.

For months, the floating apartments had stood nearly empty, moored in the abandoned downtown level with the third stories of submerged buildings on what had once been the financial district. After a series of small fires and an outbreak of cholera in the crowed above-water neighborhoods, the city council insisted that some must move and came up with a system for assigning relocation and employment. Each person received a rating based their on level of personal responsibility in the rising sea level and other unnatural catastrophes, and was held accountable for acting in accordance with known information included on the official common-knowledge list.

When Anna told her children about her relocation, they were unsympathetic: All three, in their similar voices of different pitches, said, “It’s only fair.” Each reminded her they were denied children of their own because she had gone over her generational quota. All pointed to the small scars on their right shoulders where the preventive hormonal capsules had been inserted. When she said goodbye, the oldest said, “I want whatever you aren’t taking with you,” and the middle one said, “You’ll just have to live with this,” and the youngest said, “I will miss you sometimes.”

Even when her children were born, more than twenty years ago, adults were limited to one child each, two for a couple—allowed to replace themselves, but go no further. Anna couldn’t easily explain why she had done it, not to the overseer at her job, the officials who processed her for relocation, or to her children. And she refused to reveal who had helped her. When she asked her supervisor in a subdued whisper, “Haven’t you ever been lonely?” he merely shook his head—though she was not sure if he had heard the question—and gestured impatiently for her to leave his office. After the second child, her wages had been garnished until she had paid back medical expenses. After the third, the family’s monthly rations were downgraded. When her children wanted to know why their government box never contained oranges, only vitamin C powder, she said, they had each other, what else did they need and she never stated it as a question.

When it came time to say goodbye, all except Anna’s youngest flinched away from her embrace as if her arms would sting. In her daughter’s case, Anna told herself, it might sincerely hurt her to be held. While Anna was pregnant with her, the apartment’s water had been contaminated, and the girl had been sick in one way or another since she was born, including a strange sensitivity to touch. Anna’s first son had been old enough when it happened that he was only slightly affected by drinking the water himself—he had had memory problems that made it tough for him to learn to read, at first. The third came after.

Anna often reasoned to herself that her daughter was in sick or in pain when she needed to explain the distance between them. Part of her knew that it was not quite right to be reassured by this, but she curled away from her own selfishness like dry leaves from a flame.

ANNA COULD NOT EASILY hold onto small objects with her arthritic fingers, so she was assigned to oversee oceanic debris sorting robots in the cleanup division. She piloted an under-and-over water salvager, about the size of a small pickup truck, along with a detail of robots ranging from palm-sized to knee-height. They had been created during an earlier time, when people still thought it possible to dull their own destructiveness, and now the machines proved difficult to reprogram for other, more necessary tasks. Anna felt a kinship with the robots’ obsolete industriousness.

The work required a human operator because the debris recoveries were often too complex to be managed by the simple-thinking machines. Inside the salvager, on the only surfaces not taken up by tools or portholes, there was a poster that listed and illustrated all of the steps of robot maintenance, most of them written like nursery rhymes to make them easier to remember: “Keep me oiled and keep me dry unless you want my circuits to fry” or “When it’s night, turn off my light.” In the illustrations, the robots cried and smiled—though the real ones had the capacity to do neither. During Anna’s job training, it was impressed upon her that she had responsibility for the robots, as if she were a sheepdog and they sheep, dependent on her judgment and nudges.

After a few weeks of directing the robots as they entered and left her solar-powered salvager on their endless tasks, travelling farther and farther into open sea each day before returning home, Anna realized that it was true; they relied on her help for even the simplest decisions and would agree to almost anything she requested, as long as it involved the elimination or transformation of garbage.

At sea, at first, Anna stared at the sky. The variations in color and texture and gave her more to daydream about than the water, she thought, but then she began to see that the sea could be nearly black-dark or green or neon blue or the same color as the sky and could take any shape, lined like her own palms one moment and then smooth as if scoured by an unseen hand the next, and then she spent as much time considering the water as she had the sky. In this manner, one day drifted into the next and it took her months to realize the full extent of what the robots could do and learn.

It happened by accident. The bots were primarily voice activated and Anna didn’t always enunciate well enough for them to understand. One morning, they were taking apart the remains of a fishing boat, collecting metal screws and bolts as they detached them from the upside-down hull. When they finished removing the metal pieces and sorting them into the bins by type, she told them to cut the rest of the boat into smaller pieces so that they would fit into the storage hold. One of the robots reared up on its crab-like spiked hind legs and asked her, “What is ‘maller pies’?”

After a moment of considering how to make her request specific enough for the machine’s literal processors, she responded, “a cylinder nine inches in diameter and three inches tall.” Within minutes, the salvager was filled with puck-shaped plastic discs. Later that morning, they encountered a berg of styrofoam and one of the bots asked, “We make maller pies?”

She found that the bots remembered a term or phrase once they had been taught and she began to come up with shorthand ways of communicating with them, mixing real words with ones she made up, dropping parts of sentences, and adding in sailing or biology terminology she heard over the radio. She forgot sometimes, during video calls with her children, that they did not know this language. She would say, “we came across a smack of perishables” or “the bots deboned a catamaran.” When she accidently spoke this way, she did not explain herself and her children did not ask, or wonder who she meant by “we,” and so she knew they were not listening.

Even so, she was happy that her children called her more often than they had before. Perhaps her situation gave them empathy—or they felt her punishment was being taken care of and they need not enforce it themselves. I just wanted something to love, she told each of them once and again through the unreliable communication screen installed above her shelf-bed in the houseboat. Her youngest son, the only one who did not usually hang up before she had a chance to say goodbye, responded that she could at least say “someone” instead of “something” and tried to explain that he and his siblings had not chosen such circumstances, had not been able to refuse, and had no one to direct their anger toward except herself. She said, “Wouldn’t you rather be alive than not?” and he said, “We’re not always sure.”

Unlike his siblings, he did not expect a satisfying response and, instead, he changed the subject and asked if his mother had seen any By-the-Wind-Sailors out on the water. He had heard that their transparent fins had been sighted for the first time in decades by sea salvagers, and some had even washed ashore, their disc-shaped colonies looking like ringed cross sections of trees stained iridescent blue.

She said no, it was just a story, velella were still extinct. She wanted to tell him the truth, but felt that revealing herself would lessen the significance of what she had done.

“Tell your brother and sister that I love them.”

“It’s better if it comes from you.”

“I won’t be able to tell them.”

“You have to try.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll try.”

ANNA KNEW WHY THE velella had returned—or how they had. Along with her invented language, Anna had taught her robots to track her with their motion, color, and light sensing eyes and nod when they agreed with something. They seemed more and more alive to her all the time. Whether or not they were truly capable of agreeing was something she dared not ask. The robots questioned her incessantly, like curious toddlers, and she came to understand that they knew very little about the sea as it had been.

This was one thing she could do something about. Carefully remembering the shape of a sea star from her childhood, she described the internal skeleton, tube feet, and transparent eversible stomach to one of the smaller bots as it perched on her thumb one morning. The apertures of its many eyes adjusted like real pupils as she spoke, as if it were trying to picture what she described by adjusting the lighting inside the salvager. It dove through one of the hatches into the water and, after a few hours passed, returned dragging something very like a sea star, completely constructed out of artificial plastic particles in shades of purple.

Anna had forgotten to tell the robot that a star usually had five arms, so it only had four—she had waved her fingers in the air to try to explain what the animal looked like, and perhaps the bot had not counted her thumb—otherwise the animal was nearly exactly as she remembered. Delighted, Anna held the star in her hand and ran a finger over its rays.

Her face fell. It was not alive. No one had seen a sea star in the wild for over 30 years. She set it on the glowing control panel of her salvager and the little suction cups on its underside did not hold on to anything, so it slipped off onto the floor, bouncing limply like a partially deflated rubber ball. She found herself running her hand over the surface of the creature again every few minutes, as if it merely needed the warm friction of an affectionate touch to awaken.

THAT NIGHT, ANNA’S DAUGHTER called and they got into another fight about her disorders—and the treatment for them. Anna wanted to donate her own blood to help, but her daughter kept explaining that it was the wrong type and Anna couldn’t understand why that wasn’t something that doctors could fix and her daughter got frustrated because it was not the first time they’d had this conversation or something like it. Her daughter yelled, “You’re always offering things that you can’t give, as if it’s the thought that counts. But thoughts don’t count, they don’t count at all.”

“I just want you to be well.”

“I’m never going to be.”

Anna could only say that she loved her and wished she could be happy. Her daughter shook her head and hid her eyes in the hands. Anna sighed, and pulled her rough grey felt blanket more tightly around herself—her children thought that if she had really cared, she would have imagined this. She would have done something about this before this happened. “This” was a gesture that all three of them made.

Her daughter pointed out marks all over her body where out of control cells had been removed, over and over again. She had trouble extending her limbs or curling her fingers because of the scar tissue and she coughed persistently—her lungs had always been small, and strained. It was amazing that she had lived. The scars reminded Anna of the craters on the moon, of impact sites. My child is quite stubborn, Anna thought fondly, as they lapsed into silence and her daughter looked away, at something off screen, while Anna stared slightly past her shoulders, at the precise anatomical drawings of the human body attached to the wall behind her—intricate pen and ink illustrations that must have taken her painful effort to create. As Anna began to feel lost in her admiration of them, her daughter hung up abruptly and the screen went black.

Her oldest son would lean from side to side during a call so that she could see the economical dimensions of his portable housing unit, the efficient and characterless walls with windows that automatically darkened in the sun, the canisters of powdered food rations, as he pointed to this and that and the other thing. His frustrations and disappointments. She had noticed recently that some of the books he had kept with him for many years were missing—The Odyssey, Watership Down, and The House on Mango Street. When she asked about them, he said, “I am home. This is all there is.” He reminded her of a hamster without a wheel to run on.

Her youngest son usually called her from somewhere out of doors and he would point at the sky, or sometimes at the ground, which could mean any number of things. She had told him all about the climbing and flying creatures from her childhood that had since disappeared. Perhaps she should not have. When she was very small, she had loved to find and hold and draw animals and plants and, if things had been different and she had been able to continue at school, she would have wanted to study them. Her son was fascinated by her descriptions of hummingbirds and larches and mantises other things that he had never seen himself, but it was hard to bear the way his face faded as she spoke of them. The outside and inside he knew weren’t very different from each other. Pigeons, rats, and hard-shelled insects all lived both places and were of the same, dull grey-brown. The ocean pulsed with clear jellyfish. Anna knew some of them had colors and thought they were beautiful, like her crystal glass. Her son said they were like transparent plastic bags blowing along a grey sidewalk.

Anna’s children would never forgive her for bringing them into “this.”

AFTER THE SEA STAR, Anna asked her robots to make other life for her: a spiny purple sea urchin, barnacles like tiny white volcanoes, and boxy-shelled shore crabs. When they were finished, Anna moved the replicas with her fingers in between debris discoveries to try to make them seem alive. She stored them inside the salvager so that no one would find them and take them away, though there was soon very little space in the cramped cabin for herself and the robots as they came and went.

There came a time when Anna couldn’t remember what her apartment had looked like or how it felt to be anchored to the ground. She talked comfortably to the robots in her half-invented language, describing something new to make for her each day along with their standard salvaging tasks.

Then, in the middle of a complicated cleanup project of a derelict cruise ship, Anna accidentally bumped the salvager into a submerged waterslide bolted to the deck of the massive, listing boat. Losing her balance, she cut her hand on one of the thin edge of a hard plastic sea shell replica as she tried to stop her fall. When she pulled the fragment out of her hand, blood ran down her palm and one of the robots stopped crushing dinnerware into glass particles long enough to bandage the wound with its metal tentacles and suction the red drips off the floor.

“What will you do with my blood?” she asked it.

“Human pollution,” it replied. Anna knew that meant her body fluid would be incinerated or buried, the two primary disposal options for biological substances.

Looking at the models of sea life scattered willy-nilly by the impact with the cruise ship, almost as if they had begun to wander on their own, Anna asked, without really considering what she meant: “Can you give it to one of them?” She pointed at the sea star. The squid-like bot paused with the uncertainty that arose from a particularly rigorous data retrieval search. Anna waited patiently.

Then, abruptly and decisively, the robot picked up the purple sea star, pierced it in multiple places with its needles that appeared out of the ends of its mechanical legs, cauterized the holes to close them, and then held it up in the air and shook it vigorously. Task completed, the robot considerately crawled up the wall so that Anna wouldn’t have to bend down, and held out the star. She took it in one hand and felt tiny tube feet shyly attaching to the skin of her palm. She turned her hand palm side down and the star clung to her more boldly.

Gently pulling the sea star away from her skin and reattaching it to one of the salvager’s windows, Anna asked the robots what they needed to make each of the other creatures live. Sometimes it was blood, sometimes another part of her: a bit of fingernail, skin cells scraped from a callous, a sample from an internal organ that they would extract using a long telescoping needle. She did not stop until each thing was animate, though she began to feel as if she had been struck by a car, and was laying half alive by the side of the road watching crows gather.

Resting on the cold glass floor of the salvager as the newly animated creatures crawled over and around her, Anna knew she must release them if she wanted to add to their number. There simply wasn’t enough space left in the salvager. She called to one of the bots, explained what she wanted, and it began to gather up the crawling, sliding, skittering things in its many mechanical arms.

It was painful, at first, to see her creatures pass one by one through the series of see-through vacuum tubes that usually brought garbage into the ship’s holding tank and ejected excess water. She felt as if she had lost small pieces of herself, and laughed ruefully when she realized that this was literally true.

Anna was only certain she had made the right decision a few weeks later, when she looked through the clear floor of the salvager and was startled to see the sea star attached to the glass. It still lived, in its own slow manner, detaching and attaching tiny suction cups in a curving path until it meandered out of sight.

Within a few months, Anna’s fellow salvagers began to report that their ships were encrusted with barnacles. Plumose anemones bloomed underneath all of the houseboats and the residents were so fascinated that they would reach into the dangerously contaminated seawater to feel the subtle lace of tentacles against their fingers.

People said things weren’t exactly as they remembered them. Only Anna knew that this was because the things repopulating the ocean were exactly how she remembered them. Suddenly, there were more than Anna and her robots had created--including some that looked like unfamiliar combinations of parts of the things she had made. They must be multiplying themselves, she realized. She wasn’t sure how that was possible, but she started to find less and less to salvage each day, and she began to believe that the creatures had figured out how to do whatever her robots had done to make them.

Her daughter began to say, “Mom, you look old,” with unfamiliar concern in her voice. Soon, Anna’s nose and ears had lost most of their cartilage, her teeth were nearly entirely gone, as were her nails and much of her hair, and she knew there were important things missing inside her as well—eating, breathing, and moving herself from the bed to her salvager became daunting tasks. Her oldest son wondered aloud if she could recommend him for her salvaging position once she could no longer work and the youngest one asked, “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

One morning, after watching a harbor seal and pup somersault past her salvager with grace and speed far beyond what she had remembered of the living versions, Anna called together all of her robots and described each remaining thing she recalled, but had not yet recreated, held back by the fear that they were too complicated, too demanding of her memory—the sea otter, salmon, cormorant, nudibranch—and instructed the bots to use all that was left of her. They hesitated and paused to search their databases for guidance, but then followed their hardwired programming and did as she asked.

AFTER HE LOST HIS mother and came to realize slowly, when some weeks had passed and his senses still felt dulled and dampened, that it was indeed a loss, Anna’s youngest son began to recover his curiosity. He went out for the first time in a few days, and wandered near the edge of the sea, along the collapsing walls of sandbags and fractured pieces of sidewalk and through the abandoned hulks of buildings being eaten slowly and quickly by the waves depending on the material of their making.

What he had heard was true—the rebar, brick, concrete, and glass were all beginning to be covered over with living things he had only heard of or seen before in skeletal form, in brittle fragments.

He stopped to examine plantlike stalks, muddy green and slimy to the touch, with leaves like forked bubble-wrap. Lifting the edge of rusting, detached car door, he spied a bluish crab the size of his hand with eight serrated claws, a few of which it held uplifted threateningly toward him, while it walked awkwardly upon the others, and he remembered a story his mother had once told him about how she was scared of crabs when she was a child because she imagined them the size of large cats, with a claw on the end of each leg—until her parents took her to the beach and she saw one, button-sized and harmless, and cowering under a rock.

He did not know exactly what he had expected, but he had a strong sense of the natural underneath his limited of experience of it and knew there was something uncanny about these things that seemed to live—though he could not tell precisely what it was. The rough skin of one sea star felt as alive as his own tongue, but the structures underneath did not, instead reminding him of the bends and knobs of a plastic coat hanger. He knew how fingers and hands worked, the elasticity of his own skin, the contraction and rebounding of the pupils in his own eyes. Some of those things, yes, were in these creatures. Others were not—and they were less like his body and more like the molded limbs of dolls, an aluminum tab off a can of soda, or shredded remnants of plastic bags.

He looked down to see wet circles in the sand transforming into slender-petaled blossoms when the water touched them. He did not know what they were called, but the sea anemones reminded him of children’s drawings, with sprawling lines in a limited color palate from a single box of crayons. Their bright tentacles, of mismatching lengths and widths, swayed softly back and forth in the waves, disappearing abruptly as the water receded.

Leaning over and extending a cautious arm, he touched one of the sea flowers, and it closed around his pointer finger the way his own hand might wrap curiously around an unknown doorknob, before gently turning it. A wave flowed over and around his shoes and frigid saltwater seeped in. He stood his ground, reluctant to pull free even as the sand slowly slid away underfoot, and though the anemone’s grasp on the surface of his skin scared him a little. The thing clung to him as if it wished to be held in return, as if it might decide to keep him.

About the Author

Rachel Linn graduated with an MFA in creative writing from the University of Washington in Seattle, where she received the Eugene Van Buren prize for her thesis project.  Her writing and illustrations have appeared or are forthcoming in Storm Cellar, small po[r]tions, Bracken, The Future Fire, and elsewhere.

SHE NEVER KILLED THE SPIDERS

S.L. EDWARDS

THE WINTER CHILL SNAKED its way through the dying trees, drawing a thick fog from the forest floor and covering the dry leaf-husks. Celeste heard the crunching under her thin shoes as she darted over skeletal trunks, wary of the red leering eyes peering just beyond the darkness. Her lungs were ready to splinter their cage and shatter her ribs, but she ran fast, just ahead of the incoherent rumblings of the mob behind her. She did not look back and ignored the fog-concealed thorns that cut and tore her pants.

Celeste had seen the pictures of witch-trials, the poor men and women who were shackled, whipped, stripped of their clothing and flesh by barb and iron. While the other folk had mocked and laughed at the pictures that the travelers had brought to their village, praising God and licking their lips over the countenances of suffering, Celeste felt sick. She knew there was evil in the world, but she did not see it in the faces of supposed witches. It instead seeped up from the hungry eyes of the villagers. From the stony and resolute countenances of the prosecutors which held their hot irons to writhing flesh.

Lost in these thoughts and blind to the forest floor, she fell over a root. Celeste turned as best she could, trying to land on her back and save the journal she tightly cradled in her arms. She bit her lip, moaning quietly from the pain as the copper-tang of blood split across her tongue. She could not scream, she would not scream. To do so would mean a quicker and more painful death.

She rose as quickly as she could, scanning everything she could see for shadows and wide mouths. She knew the forests of Averoigne were haunted. Everyone knew, from the smallest child to the oldest widows, who each spun their too-near-truth tales about the demons that still reigned in the darkest parts of the forest. Until today there had been no force on earth which could have compelled Celeste to enter the forest, but now she was faced with only two choices: to give herself to demon or to man.

Remembering the faces in her village, she was not so sure there would be a difference between the two.

There was a low, long growl only a few feet away. She stifled a yelp, veering away from the source and further into woods. The branches began to overtake each other, forming a dark ceiling to shield her from the cold, grey winter sky and what little light it could provide. A lone bird cawed into the distance, too big and too angry to be anything less than monstrous. The frost began to tear at her as much as the thorns, and she slowly became aware of the silence around her and the warm trickle of blood into her shoes.

Her head became lighter and lighter as she considered how much she was bleeding. She did not want to check, to slide her hands down her shins to count the cuts and scrapes and find her palms covered in her own red gore. There were the things of the woods, the vampires and loup garous that could smell blood from their darkest perches in the hearts of blasphemous woods. She did not need to know how much of a morsel she was.

A sound overtook her nightmare daydreams. A loud, almost wooden clicking, the sort she had heard such when large, thick tree branches were twisted and broken by heavy storms. First, only a few clicks. Then another, and with horror she realized the sound was barreling towards her from the darkness between the trees. She ran in the opposite direction, but the exhaustion had woven itself across her bones and sinews. Breathing hurt, tearing her throat and forcing dark, warm coughs of blood.

Two sharp pains pierced her back.

She screamed, falling to the forest floor and the blackness of unconsciousness.

SHE WOKE TO FIND herself still screaming.

It was dark, but she was warm. Moving her arms she found she was under thick, heavy covers. Pain lapped calmly across her body, making her groan but somehow soothing as a dim reminder that she could rest. She ran hand through her hair, finding it empty of twigs and leaves.

She threw off the covers, finding that her legs and been cleaned and bound in white strips of cloth. No red peeked up from beneath the bandages. Someone had stopped the bleeding.

She was in a night gown, something fine and silken that was comfortable but thin. She shivered, looking around the room for something to wrap herself in.

She stopped as eyes met her own.

Celeste had seldom seen her reflection, on the surface of water and finer glass on rare occasions. Her face was still haggard, she would need far more rest. Her fine, bright blond hair cascaded in curls down to her shoulders. She walked across the room, touching her hand to the mirror and looking into her soft and scared blue eyes. How long had it been since she had seen herself so clearly? She would not call herself beautiful, but it was a comfort to see her own uneasy smile looking back at her. The white-silken gown stood starkly against her sun-tanned flesh, earned by hard work in gardens and fields.

She sighed.

She was alive, and perhaps that would be enough.

She took in the greater details of the room, the thick windowless stone walls, red rug beneath her feet, the soft-burning candle on the nightstand next to her. Then she saw a thick, green shawl draped over a chair. She moved to reach for it, only noticing then that her journal sat in the very same chair.

“It is an interesting work you have there.”

The chill soaked into her spine.

The voice came from beyond the open door, a portal that provided no light. She stood frozen, looking into the empty doorway and hoping that she had imagined the words, that they had welled up from stress and exhaustion.

“Come outside, my dear.” The voice insisted.

Every instinct in her told her to run. The voice was an echoing whisper, the low sliding of leaves in torrential wind. There was a shaking cadence to it, the melodic lure with which the serpent had tempted eve.

She looked around the room. There were no windows, no extra doors. Celeste looked to a chest at the foot of her bed, wondering if it held enough weight to block the entrance to the room where she would no doubt die of starvation.

“I see.” The voice responded.

“It is no small wonder you are nervous. Please, rest and,” the voice added, as if able to read her thoughts, “I shall have your meal prepared when you are ready for it.”

She heard no receding footsteps, no echoing footfalls.

Celeste slowly moved back to the bed, shawl draped over her shoulders. She tried gathering her thoughts, attempting to reason through her situation. She was alone in a windowless room, wounds treated and body cleaned. Whoever had saved her had taken great liberty with her person, but as of yet had not done so in a way which placed her in danger. She felt no new sickness, only the pains which she had so recklessly earned during while running for her life. The owner of the voice, whoever they had been, did not find it necessary to come into her room but instead bade her outside.

After a matter of hours, the smell of warm bread and savory broth wafted into the room.

She had no way to tell how long it was since she last ate, but at last hunger won out over exhaustion.

She exited the room to a dark corridor lit by several burning torches. The ceiling was high above her, made of the same black stone as the walls of her room. Her thin slippers did not protect her from the rough texture of the floor, though she had spent much her life barefoot. She strained to listen, searching for some indication of where she was and what kind of danger (if any) she was in. But only the crackling of the flames and the faint echo of wind answered her.

The journey down a spiral staircase was made faster by the smell of the meal.

She emerged into a large dining room. A long, wooden table stood before her. And in front of the closest seat, a bowl of a white-creamy soup. She looked around again. No portraits hung, no family crest or banners either. Only dim torchlight fought against absolute darkness.

“Hello?” Celeste called.

Nothing called in return.

She sat down and inhaled the smell cautiously. But it was too much, too rich for her to resist. She placed the bowl to her lips, slurping it down in thick, long gulps. It was creamier than she was used to, a sort of luxury that she had only seen and never tasted. The soup warmed her from the inside, lulling through her stomach in gentle waves. Realizing she was hungrier than she could have guessed, she assailed the loaf of bread, taking it into her mouth by the handful.

The low, sliding voice laughed.

The speaker sat on the far side of the table, having made a soundless entrance. Being seated, Celeste could not even guess the approximate height of her host. They wore thick clothes and a drawn hood, hiding their features within the darkness of the faintly illuminated room.

“I take it then that you were hungry?”

Celeste gulped, nodding. “Yes, thank you.” She did not allow herself time to be afraid, deciding to keep the conversation moving so as to best protect herself.

“I am glad you are well. When I first found you…I confess, I was afraid you would die.”

“Well…thank you, once more.” She added.

“You’re quite welcome.”

“How…how long was I asleep?”

The voice made a long, groan, as if it were thinking. “In all truth, I cannot say. I do not live with windows, and I keep rather irregular hours. Every moment you were asleep, however, was one which I spent tending to you.”

“What may I call you?”

Again, the voice thought in its low grumbling. “Euredes Araignée. Yes, I might go by that.”

“Monsieur Araignée,” she continued, “I do not believe I can safely leave this place. I am Celeste Fortescue and beg your further protection.”

“And pray tell, would this have to do with the wonderful thing you have written?”

Her stomach fell. He had read the journal. But stranger still, she had not signed it. She wondered then how he knew she had penned it.

“I admit,” he began, “I could not tell at first what I was reading. For some parts it is a wonderful story, and then in others what I can only think to describe as,” he paused again, “An incantation. How did you come up with such a marvelous thing?”

“My mother could read. She taught me to write.”

“And pray, is that why those brutes were chasing you? Why they screamed for your murder? Could it be that did they not like a woman writing such things?”

Celeste looked down at the table, “Monsieur, I do not believe they liked a woman writing anything at all.”

“Ah.” Was his only, sad response.

“The world,” Euredes Araignée spoke, “Is often cruel to its greatest denizens,” before she could ask him what he meant he continued, “Your work shows you are a great talent. You should be proud of it. But again I must ask…” he seemed to clear his throat, only it was a sort of chittering noise made by a great and frightening bird, “Is it an incantation? Are you a sorceress?”

She smiled, despite the strangeness of her situation. It felt good to laugh, though it hurt her ribs.

“To my knowledge, I have no such power. It is merely a story, with some tangents and poems scattered throughout.”

“There is power in stories,” his reply was grave and serious.

The quiet hung over them for some time.

“Is there any other reason they so adamantly accused you of sorcery? Or was it merely because your talent?”

She smiled sadly, recalling the story with a certain amount of fondness. “Two years ago, our village was invaded by spiders of all kinds. There were the small ones, which would work their way into hay and sheet while you slept. There were ones the size of apples, that would build their webs in gardens and feast on insects and crops alike. And there were even ones the size of a grown man’s chest…ancient things, so large and so intelligent that the local priest proclaimed them to be the descendants of Lucifer himself. They were a terrifying, vicious blight, and in certain days it seemed as if every inch of our town was covered in a brown-black shifting curtain of legs.

“It was simple, but the knowledge had been lost to the village elders. My mother had taught me that peppermint repels spiders. While the rest of them took to the futile task of stomping them out, chasing their larger brethren into the woods where they could procreate further, I simply began spreading peppermint across our village. An easy cure to a difficult problem, but it worked. And I had their gratitude until-”

“Say no more,” Euredes Araignée interrupted, “The minds of men are fickle and malleable things. They only need to be told that there is a monster in the dark to believe it. They need only witness strange thing before their faith and reason are shaken. A simple solution, as you say, but one with complicated consequences.

“You are a good soul, Mademoiselle Fortescue, but you could not have known your good deed would have warranted a punishment.”

Celeste could not think of a suitable reply, “Might I petition your protection then?”

“You shall have it,” Euredes Araignée replied. “But I must ask for conditions.”

Terror seized her. The eyes of greedy men had fallen on her before, and in the darkness the eyes of Euredes Araignée were invisible to her. She worried then, that the conditions required of her may warrant the surrender of more than she was prepared to part with.

“I ask that you continue writing, and you be willing to share what you write. Yours is a lovely talent, and I have so few new things to read. A second condition is that you stay away from the basements of this castle. You have probably guessed by now that I enjoy my privacy, and though I will grant you free reign of most of my home, I will still ask for my privacy. Another is that you tell me anything you want, and I will get it for you. And my final condition,” he paused, “Is that you tell me if and when you decide to depart. You are free to leave at any time, though I understand your reluctance to do so. I only ask that you depart this place as you abide in it, with my protection.”

The conditions were suspiciously friendly, but she was in no position to disagree with them.

“Thank you, Monsieur Araignée, I will gladly accept these terms.”

“Excellent,” Araigneé’s voice chimed musically from the darkness, “But you will forgive me if I add only one more condition.”

“Certainly.” She grit her teeth.

“You will call me ‘Euredes,’ and, if you allow, I will call you ‘Celeste.’ Let us not expend any energy on useless, cruel formalities.”

“I see…thank you, Euredes.” She wanted to smile, to be comfortable in her new conditions. But though Euredes had done nothing to harm her, the unusualness of her circumstances compelled her to stay on guard.

For the rest of her dinner, Euredes only asked her questions. What was the name of her village? Had she written anything else? Was their one food she enjoyed over any other? He deftly redirected questions about himself. What was he doing in a windowless fortress? How had he come upon her? She resolved to press these issues further, when she had become more knowledgeable of her surroundings and Euredes himself.

After hours of friendly interrogation, Euredes suddenly stood from his chair. In the distance and darkness she still could not make out the features of his face. Only his formidable stature and the length of his black coat made themselves visible.

“If you’ll forgive me, I will excuse myself for the rest of the evening. You have complete freedom to explore the castle at your leisure, and please content yourself to anything you find.”

He bowed slowly and slid back into the darkness, leaving his chair pulled away from the table.

EUREDES BECAME MORE FORTHCOMING as they spent more time together.

He never came close enough for Celeste to clearly see his face, always staying just out of the full light of her lit candles. He only spoke in the same echoing whisper, and still made great efforts to not talk about himself. She learned that he found her lying face down in the woods, two great welts rising from her back. He had undressed her, yes, and it was only when she pressed this issue that he revealed that he was a “Monk of sorts.”

“I have undressed and treated the human form many times, my dear Celeste.” He had hissed this, as if frustrated and desperately ashamed all at once, “I understand your reservations, but I believed you were close to death. I had to treat your wounds and clean you. I swear to you that it was a liberty I would not have taken otherwise.”

That he was a “monk of sorts” explained the isolation along with the interest in reading and writing. Euredes regularly inquired about her writing, but refused to discuss what she had written, insisting that she share her stories only when they were complete and ready. She would leave stories, poems, and ruminations outside of her room at night. Sometimes she would wake to loud, heavy clicking sounds and she would be reminded of her blind, panicked run through the forest, of the terror which her fellow man had so deeply engrained in her. When she opened her door in the morning, her drafts would be neatly stacked with additional notes, written in a precise and neat hand.

He proved to be an ardent but helpful critic. “Let your story breath more, focus more on setting and less on movement,” he wrote about the end of a story about a murdered god. “Make sure that you have a similar pattern of sounds in the middle of your lines,” he wrote of her poems.

Despite herself, she found herself looking forward to seeing his insight.

Celeste had yet to figure out exactly how large the castle was, though she was certain there were at least four stories including the basements and (possible) sub-basements. She spent the time she was not writing or eating exploring the castle, and each day the mystery of her current situation only thickened. In her time her she had found a room full of gems, covered and dust and left to darkness and clutter, glinting so brightly that she had yelped out in surprise when she opened the door. She found a library, covered in spider webs so thick and profuse that she first believed the room was filled with silken sheets. She wondered how much time Euredes spent in the library, and how he read so many books with so little light.

She encountered spider webs all over the castle, creeping from corners and across ledges. But it was not until after the fourth day (she supposed, judging by how she slept in the lightless place) that she saw the creatures that were leaving them. She was combing through the library once more, reaching for a book she found with Euredes’ name on it. She paused at the spine, Euredes’ name was only a faint semi-gold mark that had faded with the wears of time. She reached for it when she saw eyes perched above the book.

She decided to let the spider keep its book, as the she only saw its eyes before she sprinted away. From then on, she heard them, saw their eyes peering out at her in curiosity. Celeste came to believe that these were the sort of spiders common only to her region, intelligent and patient as foxes, content to watch and wise enough to not approach her. She was fine with this. She did not lie to Euredes, she never did kill any spider or creature who crossed her path; but she believed that the creatures thought her an intruder and found it best to avoid them altogether rather than risk agitating them.

When she found Euredes at the table where he presumably took his meals (though she never witnessed him eat), she pressed asked why the castle held so many spiders.

Euredes responded by dismissing the question, “They may sense great good in you, Celeste. And because of this, they will not hurt you. They will, however, adore and follow you. Do not let it unsettle you.”

“But why are they here?” Celeste pressed further.

“They excel at trapping harmful things.”

He would say nothing further on the issue.

A few weeks into her stay in the castle, she noticed something as common and more disturbing than the spiders which watched her from perched darkness. She had been exploring the castle further, illuminating the kitchen with the low orange light of her candelabra when she heard a shifting. She believed Euredes had left, as she had not seen him for what she imagined to be a few days. She strained, attempting to overcome the silence and focus on something on the sound.

It was a dim roar.

The sound of something screaming from far away.

She followed it to the step of a worn, wooden door. The sounds became quite clear, falling and rising with rhythms of agony. She reached for the handle before remembering Euredes’ conditions. The door slid open slightly, and a man’s voice pleaded for the mercy of God.

Frightened, she ran from the door and began to convince herself she had imagined it.

But the sounds returned, from behind almost every door which led to the basements below. She remembered Euredes was a ‘monk of sorts’ and wondered if he belonged to the satanic order which was rumored to thrive under the cover of Averoigne’s darkness. The screams became constant, and she learned to hear them over the presumed silence of the empty castle and the shifting scuttles of spider legs. They became louder, more pronounced, awaking her from her sleep and giving tormenting her in her waking hours.

She questioned her soul. As far as she could tell, Euredes did not have one Bible in his library, nor was there any indication that he was a religious man at all. She began to wonder if she had accepted the conditions of the devil, or at the very least one of his ardent followers.

And if there were souls down there, trapped and shackled to walls, did they not deserve her mercy? Celeste thought of the religious men who chased her through the woods, who threatened to do unholy things to her before they burnt her alive. Thinking of this, she no longer understood what ‘mercy’ was, nor who deserved it.

But Euredes had promised to not harm her.

And then, there was one thing which he gave undue attention to.

She wrote her questions down, putting them between the lines of her poems and stories, hopeful that he would no longer be able to avoid them.

But the stack outside her door only grew taller, and it seemed Euredes truly had left.

THE SCREAMING OF A man woke her up again.

This sound was louder, more distinct than the muffled cries which extended from the basements.

“NO! PLEASE!”

She darted from her bed, throwing off the sheets and lighting her candle. She moved quietly, sliding her door open and moving slowly down the darkness of the hallway. Around her the spider-eyes gathered, and the falling of their many feet masked any sound she could make.

The voice shrieked, followed by the crashing of furniture and the sound of rough fabric scraping against hard stone floors. From the second story she saw the man’s torso, grabbing to the wall of an empty doorway with tear-wetted desperation. It was the first man she had seen in a long time, something so pathetic that she almost cried out in sympathy.

Then he looked up at her, his mouth forming an astounded “O” before the darkness sucked him in.

She walked further into the cries, down the stairs and through the arches. In the wake of his struggle the man pulled rugs, overturned chairs. Dark strains of blood marked the floor, a grisly trail that spread in the small streaks of fingers and the more porous wounds of split palms.

And then she arrived at the open door.

She did not want to follow the dying man, pulled by unseen forces into the one area of the castle she had been forbidden from. She screamed, calling out for Euredes. She hoped he would answer from behind, and dreaded his voice calling out from the open basement.

When she heard no reply, she stepped through the threshold.

The stairs were taller, narrower than she would have imagined. The blood slapped against the soles of her shoes. With each step it became colder, darker and wetter. She held her candelabra up, steadying herself with each treacherous step.

When she finally caught sight of the basement floor, she was not sure what she was seeing. For a moment she wandered if she was seeing a blanket of snow, a thin white surface that seemed too smooth to be ice. She descended the last step, finding the white film to be dry, coming apart in strands.

The shrieks were right next to her, muffled through a gagged mouth.

The man was suspended from the wall, bound by the white substance around his neck. As he struggled he seemed to choke, coughing under his gag. His face darkened and eyes widened at the sight of her candlelight.

“Sh…”

She waded through the white film, moving towards the man.

“I’ll free you, just steady yourself.”

But his eyes no longer focused on her. She turned away from him, towards the corner where his stare sat.

It was the height of the wall, covering in brilliant shimmering scales. Its wide bottom oozed the white substance, each of its eight legs tipped in claws. Though none of its eyes held pupils, she could feel the force of their stare.

She did not realize she was running until she was out of the basement, did not realize she was trying every door and calling for Euredes. She only heard the smacking of the legs below her, the wet splattering of innards on the floors. When she found Euredes he sat limply at the same table he had hosted her before.

“I wish to leave now!” She screamed at him.

He did not respond.

“Monsieur Araignée!”

She moved to touch his shoulder.

The form beneath the black cloak was hard and wooden. She pushed the puppet to the floor, seeing a smooth, featureless face lull slightly to the side.

At each of its limbs were remnants of torn strings.

Celeste held her mouth to cover her screams.

From behind her, Euredes spoke:

“Spiders are quite good at trapping harmful things…but perhaps you can spin webs of a different kind.”

THEY WERE EASY TO find.

They were the men who beat their chest, who shouted the loudest in their taverns, threatening women with winks and violence. They drank too quickly and talked too boastfully of their conquests real and imagined.

She approached them all, draped in a dark cloak with only a coil of blonde hair to show against her bright face.

She had no doubt that she was beautiful when she told them her story. A mysterious pale-fleshed woman who spoke with honeyed-voice and words. And the story she told was a great and timeless thing of a monster in the woods, who lived in a windowless castle with a beautiful wife. A wife who would be all alone when the creature was slain, when its many treasures were taken. A wife who would be grateful for her rescue. And if she was not…well, the castle was windowless, was it not?

They would laugh and leer and garb her in slobbery words. But she would merely and turn them away, turning her back on those dangerous men. And they never followed her, always too scared to pursue something they could not immediately understand.

And she would smile in the winter chill, beneath her black hood and red lips.

The men would come in the morning, after the drink had settled in their stomach and the story had seized their minds.

They always did.

About the Author

S. L. Edwards is a Texan currently residing in Southern California. He enjoys dark fiction, dark poetry and darker beer. His works have appeared in Ravenwood Quarterly, Turn to Ash and Weirdbook along with several anthologies. He can be followed at sledwardswrite.blogspot.com.

NOT ACCORDING TO DESIGN

RAY DALEY

“JUST KEEP THE TRANSMISSION moving onwards, forty-three. The information flow must remain uninterrupted. You know the drill!”

I nodded at the Supervisor. His face was mine, my face was his. I am he. He is me. The man sitting next to me wears my face too, as does the man sitting next to him, and so on down the line of Transmitters. I am he, he are we, we are he, we are me.

The only thing that separates me from any other person here is the QR code, tattooed on my right shoulder. It tells anyone who wants to know that I am Transmitter forty-three. I have no other name, no other identity. It is what I am, and what I do.

I spend twelve hours of each day sitting in front of my console, headphones on, listening to the transmission, checking that the data we receive is amplified and moved onwards through this station with no loss or degradation.

We are not allowed to send. For we are told this would be the end.

The instructions remain unopened, sitting on top of each console in the event of a terminal signal failure. What to do if the unthinkable happens. If the data stops appearing on our screens.

The letters flash across the screen each day. G. C. T. A. A. C. C. G.

I focused my attention on the task in hand, the Supervisor had clearly been alerted by one of the electronic systems designed to monitor our work. They only activate in the event that a Transmitter allowed more than ten lines of data to accumulate upon their screen without confirming it to be correct for onwards amplification.

We are one of many stations exactly like this one. Each station is manned by identical faces.

Not everyone at all of the stations looks like me. But one in ten of them does.

We are the ten types best suited to this task, ensuring each sequence of letters is checked against an incoming log then we boost their signal through our console before forwarding them to the relay station. Where they go and where they come from, we are told it is unimportant. The only thing that matters is that we stay on top of the mass of data we receive.

I skimmed the eleven lines on my screen, now rapidly approaching a twelfth. Three visual inspections, all matching.

I quickly punched in the sequence of keys to activate the amplifier, selecting the eleven lines to be forwarded for relay.

No sooner than I’d cleared my screen was it quickly filling up again. I made sure not to allow more than three lines at any one time to be on screen. T. T. T. T. A. T. G. C.

Amplify. Move on.

And continued for another two hours, before the blinker on my screen started flashing yellow and blue.

The sequence of letters now replaced by a message, “SYNCHRONISED TO NIGHT STATION. YOU MAY LEAVE.”

I took the feeding tube from my mouth, and slowly eased myself from the relief tubes. The insides of my thighs were red again.

As I walked off the floor by the Checker, he noticed that too. He quickly scanned my shoulder. “Forty-three. Get yourself to Medical for some cream. Can’t have a worker distracted by pain. If you’re given a furlough, make sure to inform the Supervisor at least three hours before the beginning of the next shift.”

I could already see him entering the information onto his data pad. So I had no choice, even though all I wanted to do was return to my cubicle and sleep, I had to report to Medical.

They’d write me up otherwise, and I couldn’t really afford another write up on my record at the moment. I already had two for lateness that I was still trying to work off. Another one would earn me an interview with the District Supervisor. And workers generally didn’t ever return from those.

Fortunately for me, Medical was only just around the corner from the station entrance. They placed it as close as possible, so any worker injured during the shift would be away for the shortest possible time. Eight minutes. That was all it took to accrue more than ten lines of data on your screen.

It wasn’t possible for a Transmitter to slow down or even pause the incoming letters. They only ever stopped once the system handed the task over to another shift of identical faces, all doing the same job during our twelve hours of allocated down time.

I remember when it used to be fourteen hours, but that felt like a million years ago. They decided that workers couldn’t cope with the stresses of being in front of a terminal that long. Some sort of Medical study, conducted entirely without our knowledge of course. We never knew if a Supervisor was monitoring our screen. But you soon found out if they’d caught you over the ten line safety limit.

I WAS LUCKY, MEDICAL was empty.

The man inside stood me in the scanner, pressed a button and referred to his console. He pulled a small jar from a shelf behind. “Here forty-three, apply this to the red areas twice a day. Do it when you get up, and before you retire to sleep. Use as much as you feel you need to. You’re clear to return to work tomorrow. If you need more cream, ask a Supervisor for permission to come back to us.”

I took the jar and waited for him to scan my arm. I was out of the door as soon as he had, rushing for the elevator back heading to my cubicle. Back to real food, back to a soft bed. Back to somewhere to close my eyes and sleep.

The cream felt cool and calming as I applied it to my thighs. They felt a lot less painful as I lay down on the bunk. “Set a reminder. Apply cream to thighs each morning on waking and each evening before retiring. Lights off.”

I RAN OUT OF the cream after a week. I felt embarrassed at having to ask the Supervisor for permission to go to Medical for more.

“Sure, forty-three. Be quick. No more than eight minutes.”

I made sure to clear my screen as I was pulling the various tubes out of my body. I ran as soon as I was off the floor.

The man in Medical just scanned my arm and gave me another jar. He didn’t even ask me what I wanted. If it was the same man who had seen me before, he probably remembered telling me to come back if I needed more. If he wasn’t the same man, I assume the other man had left notes on my records.

I got back just as the seventh line of data was approaching the end of the screen.

I inserted my tubes one-handed. You’re supposed to use both hands but I was using the other to highlight all my data, ready for amplification.

I had already pressed move on before I sat back down again.

I assumed someone had reported me for not using both hands to tube up when the Supervisor came back to my console less than an hour later. I’d been keeping on top of my data flow, no more than two or three lines accumulating at the most after coming so close with the Medical break.

“Forty-three, I’ve been asked to inform you of an odd smell about your person. Several Transmitters around the floor have asked me about it. Can you explain the source?”

I could. I’d noticed it myself, the very first time I had applied the cream to my thighs. The smell hadn’t seemed all that strong at first, clearly some of the noses near my console were more sensitive than I gave them credit for. I cleared my screen of data. “I’m afraid it’s this cream Medical gave me for my legs, Supervisor. I’ll ask if they have something slightly less aromatic after the end of the shift.”

The Supervisor rose an eyebrow. “You’ll unplumb and ask them now, forty-three. I don’t want my workers distracted by strange smells near their consoles. I’ll request a synch on your console until you return. Special circumstances. Make sure you get something odourless, then wash off whatever you already applied. There’s a shower and dryer in Medical, so make use of them both. And get back here as soon as you’re done.”

I didn’t argue. You don’t, not with a Supervisor. Not unless you want to disappear forever.

My screen was already scrolling the synch message by the time I was fully unplugged. Even the Checker on the door had been told, apparently. He scanned my arm. “Permission to run in the corridor forty-three. You won’t be reported for a safety violation.”

I ran. It felt good to be able to run without fear of being caught doing it, even with sore thighs.

Medical were sympathetic. The man there found another cream. “This has no smell at all. Use our sonic shower, no need to dry off from that. You’ll be able to return to your console that much sooner.”

In less than seven minutes, according to my console.

The Supervisor had to log me back in from the synch. I think he was surprised to see me back and plumbed in so quickly.

I RETURNED TO MY work. Check a line, check it twice. Look once more, you’ve checked it thrice. Highlight, amplify, move on. And that continued for the next three hours.

I wasn’t the first to find out.

I’d been hearing panicked voices for almost fifty minutes before my console stopped filling up with letters.

I cleared what data I still had on my screen and sat waiting for more. After ten minutes, it was pretty clear that no more was coming.

People were calling for the Supervisor, asking what to do now. I knew exactly what to do.

Until today, I doubted that anyone had even touched their instructions before. I reached up and took the envelope from the top of the console. I could see forty-two sitting next to me, wondering what the hell I was doing.

I turned to him, as I opened the envelope. “This is a terminal signal failure. So I’m reading my instructions in accordance with regulations.”

“Greetings Clone. You have by now no doubt realised that the genetic data you are encoding has broken down. If your screen is now blank, it means the human operator sending you information has either died or been killed by hostile forces. You are now our only remaining resource. Unplumb from your terminal and press the ACTION key. You will receive a short data burst. Then report to your Checker and request a release. Your arm will be scanned and you will be removed from the Transmitter database. Take the nearest elevator and press S. You will need to scan your arm for access. Report to the surface immediately.”

I couldn’t unplumb myself from the console fast enough. I had seen the ACTION key every day, since I had first started. And today I finally got to press it?

I’m not sure what I was expecting to happen. Some sort of message, perhaps? There was a short burst of flashing light, for no less than a second. Then the screen simply read ACTION TAKEN. REPORT TO THE SURFACE.

I wasn’t the only person walking towards the Checker. I could hear all those in front of me, making the same request I made when I reached him. “I’d like a release please?”

The Checker didn’t even answer me, he just scanned my arm and waved me on.

I stepped into the first empty elevator that stopped. Pressing S activated the scanner on the wall that read my arm.

And then the elevator sky-rocketed upwards.

THE EXIT HUB OPENED out onto what had once probably been a grassy walkway. It was now nothing more than well compacted dirt.

Before us, I could see two large metal doors, sitting wide open almost as if they had been waiting for us to arrive. A sign above them flashed on and off, ENTER HERE. So we did.

The systems inside were automated, designed to detect life signs.

We were met by a hologram, a friendly face projected from a computer screen. Some sort of artificial intelligence, one of the former Transmitters guessed.

“Ah, you must be the clones I requested? I’m afraid that the last virus cure we were testing killed off all the human operators up here. Not to worry though, we’ve enough of you boys and girls to kick-start the old human race once again. Yes. It’s happened before. By my reckoning, this is the fourth time I’ve had to request back up. You humans just aren’t as strong as I thought you’d be.

Anyway, I’m the GDO or the Global Database Operator. I’m sure you’ll all remember that acronym wrongly, they always seem to. Now if you can each find yourselves a seat. That educational data burst you received downstairs should start kicking in once you’re comfortable. And do feel free to take a break any time you like. I think you’re a fairly good design for life. I might even perfect it one day.”

About the Author

Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he’s been writing since 1986.

PROMETHEAN

ANDREW KOZMA

I WAS A SURGEON before the end of the world. When someone was dying, I split them open, stuck my life-giving hands inside them, and made them live again. I saved people from death and pain, and excised whatever rot was hiding in their bodies.

This was no power trip. I was Promethean.

I was scrubbed in and ready to get elbows deep into saving the victim of multiple gunshots to the chest when the world blinked, and when the world’s eye opened again, all the power was off. I was in a room entirely dark. For a minute, professionalism held everyone in the operating room together, but then the screams began. I stumbled out of the scrub room into chaos, voices overlapping, metal tools falling to the floor, carts banging against the walls, head nurse Janiqua calling my name, “Dr. Singh, the patient’s dying!”

Stumbling towards her voice, I found the patient. I put my hands on him, but it didn’t matter. He was dying, and I couldn’t see a thing, all I could feel was his body slowly convulsing its last. Doors swung into the walls as nurses fled. Up and down the halls, a cacophony.

“Where’re the fucking back-up generators?” I growled.

“There’s no signal,” Janiqua said, holding her phone to her ear, the light from it making her look like a failed X-ray.

Minutes or hours later, I don’t know, Janiqua and I stayed there, trying to hold this man together, but even though we staunched the wounds afresh, there was so much internal damage we couldn’t do a thing without power, with only the shuddering, watery light from Janiqua’s phone. We were helpless.

He died. Janiqua left with an “I’m sorry, Dr. Singh, I’ve got to—” and I was left alone with occasional cries for help still filtering through the operating room doors.

Eventually a light turned the hall outside from a moonless night to cloudless day, enough reflecting through the operating room door windows to confirm, again, that my patient was dead. The parts of his skin not smeared with blood were white and waxy, like he was turning into marble. The blood was everywhere. Someone needed to mop him clean.

The light closed in on the operating room, turning everything whiter and whiter until I was blinded. “I’m in here!” I cried out, though it was too late for emergency personnel to do anything for the poor slob in front of me. He was starting to smell, his bowels having fully given release with his death. He’d probably smelled like shit and piss for a while, but I was only noticing because someone else was coming.

The doors creaked open, and a group of people padded inside, their rubber soles nearly silent. I blinked my eyes into focus. It wasn’t a group of people. It wasn’t a person. In front of me stood a robot with a body like a keg of beer, four rubber-tipped spider-like legs, and a single-tentacle arm which reached out to brush my lips, a brief moment of suction at the touch like a gentle, playful kiss.

I had met a Doctor, though I didn’t know that then.

The tentacle arm touched the lips of my dead patient, the Doctor shivered, and a dozen, two dozen arms sprouted from its body and went to work on the dead man. An arm pushed me out of the way like I was an errant puppy, so strong was it.

Minutes later, the extra tentacles retracted back into its thick, unwieldy body, and the Doctor danced out of the room, everything the same as it was before. The light dragged itself after the retreating robot until I was left in darkness again. It was like a dream. The room settled into silence, except for my breathing.

And someone else’s breathing.

“Where am I?” said the dead man on the table.

I ran from the waking nightmare.

With Doctors, there’s no need for surgeons anymore. They can handle broken bones as easily as a paper cut. Their bulbous bellies are miniature laboratories, concocting medicines and cures on the fly, taking only a sample of blood and a minute or so to prepare an injection that’ll heal whatever ails you, fixing you right up. Old age or failing heart or aneurysm, death is no obstacle, no unexplored frontier, just a pause before you wake up again, hale and hearty, in the same place you landed when you threw yourself from the roof.

I was a surgeon before the end of the world. Now I’m a counselor.

“How do you feel?” I asked the recently dead woman, though I didn’t expect an answer.

The young woman’s hair was matted with blood, as was her back. Little bits of bone and brain matter—hers—were stuck in the drying gore on the sidewalk. Doctors fix you completely, but their bedside manner leaves much to be desired, and they have absolutely no interest in cleaning up any mess they didn’t make, so I saw this pretty often: the dead arisen and unwilling to move from where they’d died.

I poured out a cup of water, then put it into her hands. She gripped it automatically, like an infant holding onto an adult’s finger. When I gently pushed the glass towards her lips, she drank just as mindlessly.

There was a small crowd around the body at first, a crowd that grew when the Doctor arrived and did its miraculous work, but now people were trickling away. The aliens hadn’t stopped for the Doctor, but to watch the humans watching the Doctor at work, but even they left eventually, all except the burning trashcan who’d decided to follow me several weeks ago. It didn’t talk. I wasn’t sure if burning trashcans could talk. But it carried equipment for me without complaint, and it was so silent and unobtrusive I almost didn’t notice it anymore. And at times like this, the heat from its headfire was welcome, because the dead always came back cold and shivering.

“Why did you throw yourself off the roof?” I asked, now that we were essentially alone. Some would claim my counseling methods too blunt, but I wasn’t trained for this, and in my limited but recent experience, being blunt is the only way to go. It starts the healing process for the mind, as opposed to the body.

“There’s no reason to live.”

Her voice was mechanical, but at least she was talking. Some never talked again.

“Don’t you have family? Friends?”

“I had a baby.”

Shit. My question had been loaded, because when the Topoi transported humanity to their new home on the Inside-Out, everyone was scattered along with every building, every home, every city. If you were in the same building as someone else, you probably ended up in the same place, but that wasn’t always true.

“How old was your baby?”

“Two months,” she said, a tinny sadness coloring her voice. “She was all I had.”

“And you are all she has,” I told her.

She shook her head. “But I’m dead.”

I urged more water, and she drank, and the drugs in the water started to have their effect. Her eyes unglazed. Her shivering increased, so I waved the burning trashcan closer until it encircled us in its squid-like arms. The drugs were to counteract the shock, because though the Doctors perfectly restored the body, they did nothing for the mind.

“You’re not dead any longer.”

She looked at her hands, the bones undoubtedly shattered in the fall, now expertly reassembled. She looked up at the building she’d jumped from, a skyscraper called Sunshine 60 which used to be in Tokyo back when there was a Tokyo. For the first time, full awareness surfaced in her, and she wasn’t pleased. Her eyes flicked between me and the burning trashcan.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Dr. Singh, and I’m here to help.” I smiled. “Come along with me now?”

I stood and offered her my hand, and she took it like I knew she would. She stood, and I was amazed again at the work of the Doctors. Covered in blood and gore and bits of bone and brain and snot, clothes nearly shredded from the fall, the woman was perfectly whole, her skin smooth and unblemished, her body restored to its own genetic ideal. I knew when I scanned her back at my office I’d find nothing wrong with her. No signs of sickness whatsoever. No cancer. No allergies, even.

The burning trashcan handed me a blanket and I wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders. Her lips snarled, but her eyes remained calm as though her anger couldn’t quite reach them. I’d seen this before, too, a disconnect in the resurrected presenting itself as a sort of brain damage except that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the brain. Worse in some than in others, and I had no idea yet how she was.

“What’s your name?”

“What the fuck do you care?”

The anger was there, but overlaid with a lack of anger, as though she was acting the way she thought she was supposed to feel. I was still getting used to the anger—as a surgeon, mostly I dealt with patients under sedation or who just were thankful. Maybe the nurses coached them, I don’t know, but with the resurrected, anger is often all I get at first.

“Look, I don’t care,” I gently told her, “but it’s a standard medical question. I need to know you aren’t affected by any amnesia, any serious, long-term brain damage.”

She looked away, watching the people passing along the far side of the street at though they were from a different universe. “Sarah.”

“Good, that’s good, Sarah.” I let a few steps of silence rest between us before asking, “Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Go fuck yourself.”

So far, acting like a perfectly normal resurrected.

Outside my office, Jarrod stood, a cold beer in his hand. He waited until we reached the entrance before spitting at Sarah’s feet. “Fucking zombie. Go back to where you belong, why don’t you?”

I hurry Sarah inside, but her expression is tight. Numb or scared, I’m not sure. And I’m not sure it matters.

I lead her to the examination room, and she doesn’t resist as a sit her on the exam table, all fight having left her for the moment.

“What’s with him?” she asks.

“Who knows?” I shrug.

But I knew. Both his wife and daughter died immediately after coming to the Inside-Out. It took hours before Doctors found him cradling both bodies in his arms, before his family was resurrected. And though he tried to accept them—god, he’ll regale your for hours with his tortuous struggles—after a month he left them. He said it was like having ghosts living with him. Or imperfect memories. Why couldn’t they have just stayed dead?

Now he wants to die, but he knows if he does the Doctors will just bring him back, too.

Sarah won’t look at me as I run my tests, her gaze focused on the burning trashcan politely waiting in the hall. All vitals normal, just as expected, but the medical exam was all about calming her with an expected routine.

She nodded to the burning trashcan. “What do you call it?”

“A nuisance.”

“It’s not your partner?”

I laughed, the thought so strange. “No, it just started following me one day. Now I barely notice it.”

Also a lie, but only because it’s hard to admit I found myself talking to the burning trashcan more often than not when alone. I figured it was better than talking to myself, and it was easy to interpret the random waving of the alien’s arms as a friendly, eloquent response. I hadn’t named it yet, though, a fact of which I was stupidly proud.

“How about Autumn?” she suggested. “Yep, I can totally see it as an Autumn.”

The burning trashcan wiggled its arms, the fire of its head dipping and rising in apparent agreement. I’d been outvoted. Autumn it was.

I took a few quick X-rays, just to confirm what I already knew from countless other examinations. Whatever broken bones she’d had, the Doctor had mended them perfectly, not even the faintest outline to show where the breaks had been. Like new bones had been regrown right there inside her cocoon of flesh.

There was nothing new to learn here. I began sterilizing the tools.

“Am I all right?”

I looked over at Sarah, wondering at whether she actually wanted to know the answer, or if she was simply asking because she knew that’s what she was supposed to do at this point. For whatever Jarrod’s problems, he was right about one thing: the resurrected were different than the people who’d died. How so, I was still trying to figure out.

“You’re fine. Probably healthier than you’ve ever been in your life.” I smiled. She smiled. We both pretended I’d said some sort of joke. “But I’d like to keep you here for a day or so, just for observation, if that’s okay.”

A flicker of real emotion burned in her eyes for a second, but she nodded and smiled and made all the right sounds. “You’re the doctor.”

I nodded and smiled and wanted to throw up, because I wasn’t anymore.

There were just two other patients in my office at the moment. Muhammed was catatonic. I only know his name because of the ID in his wallet, a wallet that still had credit cards, cash, undeposited checks, and a slew of business cards, all the trappings of Earth, useless now. In the room at the far end of the building was Kyoko, who kept reliving her death, claiming she could feel it again and again. Her throat was raw from screaming, but that did not stop her from screaming. Sometimes, the burning trashcan would sit inside Kyoko’s room when she started to yell, and that would calm her down. Sometimes it wouldn’t.

I gave Sarah a room near the front. As soon as I showed her where everything was—bathroom, communal kitchen, the closet with spare clothes and linens—she closed the door and I was alone again. Except for the burning trashcan. Except for Autumn.

“Come on,” I told it, and walked back to the front of my office to write down my notes about Sarah’s case.

Even though my surgical skills weren’t needed, all my medical knowledge essentially a waste of space in my brain, I couldn’t break the habits I’d ingrained in myself. My office was full of detailed reports on every resurrected I’d dealt with, and there were other files full of correlations between them, as well as speculation on how the Doctors did what they did, and what the effects were on the human body, post-resurrection.

Would any of this ever be useful? Probably not. The science of the Inside-Out was so far beyond human knowledge, I was like a kindergartner taking a graduate class on theoretical physics. But the writing of it gave me something to do. It kept me sane. It prevented me from shooting myself in the head.

Jarrod stood outside and drank through a six-pack of beer. When it was gone, he left, but only long enough to get another six-pack. He didn’t hold up a sign. He didn’t try to tell people about the evils of the resurrected. He kept watch, and berated me and the resurrected whenever we showed our faces.

I didn’t begrudge him. It gave him something to do. It kept him sane.

That night at dinner, after I’d fed Muhammed and brought Kyoko’s food to her room, Sarah asked me, “What am I?”

My appetite shriveled, the pasta and meatballs before me looking more like entrails than food. “What do you mean? You’re a human being, just like me.”

She took a bite, chewed deliberately. “Have you died?”

“No,” I admitted.

“So you’re not like me.”

“No,” I said again. “But medically you’re just the same as—”

She cut me off, her mouth full, what I saw inside looking even worse than entrails. “Where are all the dead, then? The people like me.”

“You’re not dead. You’ve just been resurrected. And you’re no different—”

“Does everyone who dies get resurrected?” In her mouth, the word never sounded more like a euphemism.

“Pretty much. The doctors are thorough.”

“Then there must be thousands of us. Hundreds of thousands. Millions even.” Her bowl was empty. She went for seconds. “So where are they all?”

I gave up trying to eat altogether, pushing the bowl towards Autumn. The burning trashcan picked up my leftovers in small clumps and dropped them into its flaming head.

“Many people die without anyone else knowing. Their heart gives out. They trip down the stairs. However they die, they die alone, and the Doctors find them and patch them up and they’ve alive again without anyone the wiser. Often, they don’t even know.” I poured out some scotch for myself and for her. She took a large swallow as though it were water. “As for those who die in public, they usually end up in Tartarus.”

“Zombietown,” Sarah clarified. So she’d heard of it.

“I prefer Tartarus. At least that name was chosen by the people who live there.”

“Call it whatever you want. Doesn’t change what the damn thing is.”

She cursed without inflection. She dug deep into her second helping. I took the bottle of scotch and my glass and retreated to my room. Even with the door closed, I could hear Kyoko’s screams. It took four glasses before I couldn’t hear a thing.

I woke to tentacles slapping my face. I felt like I’d died and the attending Doctor had replaced my brain with all the biohazardous waste it could find. Heat roasted my face, and when I opened my eyes it was to stare directly into the burning trashcan’s fire. It dipped and swayed in a way that didn’t look random, but still meant nothing to me.

“I’m up,” I said, but the tentacles didn’t stop slapping me until I was out of bed, and then the burning trashcan took off down the hallway towards Sarah’s room.

The office was quiet. Kyoko must’ve passed out from exhaustion, or her voice had just plain given out. After the Doctors put her back together, she healed faster than normal, so she’s never silent for long.

Sarah’s door was open and the room was empty. She was gone.

“Well, it happens,” I told the burning trashcan. I needed coffee. I needed to make coffee. The entire world seemed insurmountable.

But the burning trashcan moved quickly towards the front door.

I needed to make food for Muhammed and Kyoko. A dozen messages were pasted to the front window, demanding answers, requesting help, invoicing me for services rendered. I could see Janiqua’s signature from here, pleading with me again to come back to the hospital and help with all the new diseases which had sprouted up since humanity came to the Inside-Out, but you can only deal with what you can deal with and I had my own self-appointed cross to bear.

Beyond the messages cluttering the view to the street outside, I saw Jarrod smiling in. Gloating.

“What?” I asked, swinging the door open. The burning trashcan slithered out between me and the door.

“Lost another one,” Jarrod said. “Good job. And good riddance.”

The burning trashcan headed toward the left. On the horizon above it the Sunshine 60 towered. I knew then exactly what was going on. Sarah was going to jump again.

At first, I ran after the burning trashcan, nose filled with the acrid-lemony smell of its pale smoke. But then I slowed to a walk. It didn’t matter when we got there. I wasn’t an EMT. Time was not of the essence. The false sky was a beautiful recreation of a fall day on the North Atlantic coast, clouds hinting at possible snow in the weeks ahead

In front of the skyscraper, Sarah sat in a body-sized bloodstain a dozen feet away from its rust-colored echo. The Doctor was long gone. If anyone had stopped to help her, they were long gone, too. She’d landed on her face this time, dried blood coating her skin like a mask. When the burning trashcan approached her, she lifted her head.

“Autumn,” she said, voice flat. She looked up at me and said, her voice even flatter, “Dr. Singh.”

“Navin,” I told her.

“Whatever,” she said.

The burning trashcan didn’t reach out to comfort her, didn’t try and touch her at all, just bent its burning head in her direction, but still Sarah responded. Her eyes glanced off everything else, but stayed on it, on the alien she’d named Autumn.

I reached down to take her hand, and she didn’t resist at all when I lifted her up.

“We should go.”

“Why?”

I didn’t have an answer to that. Yet when I walked back towards the office, Sarah followed.

“I saw it this time,” she told me, the first hint of emotion coloring her voice.

“Saw what?” I ask, because the first thing I learned is that the more someone dies, the more important it is to keep them talking.

“The Doctor. I could feel it inside me. I watched it put my face back together.”

The burning trashcan kept pace on Sarah’s other side, its head continually tipped towards her. Listening? Recording? It couldn’t speak, and I felt the same way. Like those nightmares of surgery back on Earth, the anesthesia not working correctly so the patient’s aware of the entire surgery as it happens, feeling all of the pain but unable to scream.

She didn’t say anything more, and I wasn’t sure what to say in response. I was horrified. The air was warm, but I shivered. I couldn’t stop shivering.

“You’ll forget,” I assured her. “That’s how the brain handles trauma. Slowly erasing it into a blurry memory.”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t want to forget.” She paused, swallowing hard. “It was like finding God, right there. It gives me a purpose, even if that purpose is just to be rebuilt like a broken toy.”

I didn’t have anything to say. What she described sounded to me like a living nightmare. Back at the office, Kyoko was screaming.

The next morning, Sarah was gone again. A third bloodstain decorated the sidewalk, but Sarah wasn’t there, but sitting against the side of Sunshine 60. When she turned to watch Autumn and I approaching her, the bloody ghost of her shoulders remained against the wall.

“Autumn. Dr. Singh.” Her voice was clear and sure, but it sounded like a recording. Rote learning. A reflex reaction.

In all the time I’ve studied and cared for the resurrected, I’ve never dealt with one so determined to die. Yes, many try again, but usually not for weeks or months.

People were avoiding this part of the sidewalk, moving into the street to avoid the blood and us. I joined Sarah against the wall. The late morning sun shone a glorious light down on us, bringing out the highlights of the bloodstains, picking out flecks of bone and lone strands of golden hair.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I told her.

Even to my own ears, I sounded tired, defeated. I had two cups of coffee in my hands. I handed Sarah one. She stared at it like it was a foreign object. Eventually, she brought the cup to her mouth and made a face at the first sip.

“I don’t like coffee,” she said, as though it were a revelation, then she took another sip.

“You can’t keep killing yourself. You have a daughter out there that needs you.”

“I’ve searched ever since we came here. For six months I’ve wandered looking for her. She’s gone. I’m gone. She’ll never know who her mother was. I’ll never know what she’s like, all grown up. I can’t kill myself, because I’m already dead.”

She drinks the coffee.

“You could go to Tartarus,” I suggest.

I’ve never suggested this before. I believe the resurrected shouldn’t be closeted away from the rest of humanity, because they still are humanity. But maybe being around others like her would keep her from killing herself again. Maybe being surrounded by people who despaired will negate her own despair.

“Only zombies live in zombietown.”

“That’s not true.”

“Who else lives there, then?”

“No, I didn’t mean…” I sighed. “I meant that you aren’t a zombie.”

She laughed, air puffing from her throat in a constant rhythm. “Sure I’m not. At least zombies have something to live for. Something they crave.”

The burning trashcan scraped its tentacles against the bloodstains. A colony of diamond-shaped leaves started to flutter around us in a semi-circle, as though we’re on a stage. Their colors shifted from bright green to dried-out yellow. When they tried to come closer, the burning trashcan waved them away.

“What about your daughter?”

“I don’t even remember her name.”

She spoke as though reciting a script. She drank her coffee. The leaves danced a hypnotic pattern in the air before us, perhaps speaking their language, perhaps feeding off something in the air, but Sarah stared right through them.

“I don’t remember her name,” she said again. It felt like the only thing she might ever say.

I took her hand. Her hand closed automatically, an infant’s autonomic grip.

“It happens,” I said. “A side effect of the resurrection process. But it’s temporary. Your memories will come back. You’ll be who you were again.”

All lies. Each resurrection brought back less and less, and as far as I knew, what was gone was gone forever. It had to be relearned as though it had never been known.

“I don’t remember.”

We sat there for hours. I left to take care of Kyoko and Muhammed, then picked up some curry from The Original British Curry Stop for the three of us and sat down at her side again. The burning trashcan dumped its curry into its burning head. Sarah ate hers, but mechanically, her body working on its own to keep her alive. Despite the situation, despite my dark mood, the curry burned deliciously on my tongue. My taste buds didn’t care about Sarah. They had no existential angst. Now the fake sun shined down directly on us, pasting our shadows to the concrete, the shadows so dark they looked like silhouettes for a shadow play. Everything around us shone new in the light, freshly painted. The colony of leaves was spread out over the whole breadth of the street, weaving between the passersby like fish dancing around and through a coral reef. A whole host of humanity and alienity walks by, a riot of color and shapes, an orgasmic Mardi Gras parade.

Sarah stares past it all. She spoons the last of the curry into her mouth. In her eyes, I can see tomorrow’s jump and fall.

I didn’t sleep all that night. When I heard the door to Sarah’s room open, I quietly dressed. The office door clicked shut. In the hallway, the burning trashcan was there already, and it followed quickly behind me.

It was still night. Lone stragglers walked the streets, many weaving, obviously drunk. Jarrod had collapsed at his post, curled up around a half-full beer bottle. On our way to the Sunshine 60, we passed a long line of burning trashcans walking slowly down the center of the street, their liquid movements like dancing.

The Sunshine 60 was entirely dark, no lights on in the skyscraper. It was a black obelisk cutting itself out of the black sky. Somewhere inside, Sarah was rising up to the top, readying herself to jump again. Or did she even have to steel herself to it? Was this just a nightmare she was trying to free herself from, and every day she woke to find herself trapped in the same dream?

I didn’t want to be here for this. I didn’t want to watch Sarah commit suicide. I’d seen the aftermath, but she’d always been alive by then, the Doctors having come and done their duty. But where was their mercy?

All the previous bloodstains were like holes in the concrete, dark and untextured. I stood back from the Sunshine 60, but the burning trashcan crept forward, moving from side to side carefully until it positioned itself directly between two of the bloodstains. Looking up, I could see nothing. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe that I’d see her on the edge of the building’s roof, so far above, a twinge of hesitation before she steps off into the air. A scream doppling towards me faster than the body, some warning. Something.

But there was no scream, just a wet thud.

There was no body on the sidewalk, and then there was.

She landed directly next to the burning trashcan.

Her body didn’t move. Blood pooled.

Out of the shadows of the night, the Doctor came.

And when it did, I stood in front of it. “You can’t do this,” I told it.

The Doctor didn’t respond. I didn’t know if it could. The Doctors just did their resurrection work and moved on, not talking to those around the dead, not talking to the recently dead, no explanations, no reasons given.

“You’ve got to let her die.”

The keg-shaped robot sidled around me, but every time it moved, I moved with it. It showed no sign of frustration or confusion. It kept trying to get around me, and I kept standing in its way. It was patient and implacable. I could keep this up for a while, but it was tireless, and eventually it would get past me.

“This isn’t right. We need to be able to die.” I put my hands on the Doctor, pushing it back. Like a weeble, it leaned backwards but didn’t fall down. Didn’t even notice me, probably. “You can’t just keep bringing us back!”

Another Doctor approached. I wasn’t going to win this.

But the burning trashcan hissed and crackled, the first time I’d ever heard it make any sound. It dipped a tentacle into Sarah’s blood and pressed it to the Doctor’s metallic body. The burning trashcan popped and spat.

The second Doctor stopped next to the first. They no longer tried to get past me. Up and down the street, more Doctors approached.

The first Doctor, blood smeared on its surface, my hand-prints still clear on its “shoulders,” it turned to face me. A tinny voice asked, “Do you no longer need our services?”

“No,” I said. “God no. Leave us alone.”

Without argument, the Doctors left. Our lives had changed irrevocably when the Topoi brought humanity to the Inside-Out. Now I’d changed it back.

The sun rose. Sarah’s body attracted a crowd. The side of her head facing the sky was beautiful, but hollow. She didn’t look at peace. She didn’t look like she was sleeping. She looked like she was dead.

She was dead.

And now she would stay that way.

About the Author

Andrew Kozma’s fiction has been published in Escape Pod, Interzone, Daily Science Fiction, and Road Kill: Texas Horror by Texas Writers, Vol. 2. His book of poems, City of Regret (Zone 3 Press, 2007), won the Zone 3 First Book Award.

THE COBBLER’S DAUGHTER

DAWN VOGEL

WHEN CHETANA’S FATHER DIED, her uncles would not allow her to see the body. Their insistence made no sense. This was not the first time a member of the family had died. Chetana was only a toddler when her grandmother died, and yet she had helped to wash the body. Her brother had died two years previous, and she had accompanied his body to the funeral pyre, as was traditional.

Uncle Lochan said, “It is time for you to take on more responsibility in the workshop. We have many orders to fill this week, and if we all go to the funeral, how will they get done?” He handed her a stack of shoe leathers, designs already punched through the thin paper affixed to the leather.

Chetana sat down and began to sew. When the rest of the family left for the funeral, she watched them from the window of the shop, her pile of work left unfinished. She longed to follow them, but instead shed her tears for the loss of her father in his workshop, curled up on the bench where he shaped the shoes.

On Uncle Lochan’s return, he was furious. “You have done nothing?” He shook his head. “You will never fill your father’s mojari.” As if to make his point, he took Chetana’s father’s shoes and perched them on the doorframe, a silent reminder.

Three months later, they received word that the young princess had outgrown her shoes, and the queen called upon all the cobblers in the kingdom to make her daughter a new pair.

“Might I make the princess’s new mojari?” Chetana asked her uncle. Her mind was already awhirl with leather dyed midnight blue and thousands of tiny gems surrounding an embroidered crescent moon.

Uncle Lochan laughed. “No, but if you are very good, I’ll let you take them to the palace to present them to the princess.”

The day for the journey to the palace arrived, and Uncle Lochan said nothing. He had completed the mojari for the young princess. Chetana thought they were the ugliest pair of shoes she had ever seen, even worse than her own, which were developing holes where her feet stretched them out.

“Am I to take those shoes to the princess?” she asked.

Her uncle regarded her for a long while. “No, I do not think you shall. Your attitude is poor, and once you see the splendors of the palace, I fear you would not be content here with your family. I will go myself.”

Chetana watched him go. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she held them back and turned them into a fiery ball of anger in her chest. As soon as Uncle Lochan was out of sight, Chetana climbed atop her father’s workbench, sitting just beside the door, and pulled his shoes down from the doorframe. They were much larger than her own shoes, but they would at least give her feet room to breathe. She didn’t care if her uncle saw her wearing them. She slipped her feet into the soft worn leather.

In an instant, she was content. Though she could only shuffle about in the large shoes, they still made her believe she was taller and stronger and able to stand up to her uncle.

“Now listen here ...” she began. Her hand flew to her throat. The voice that had come out of her had sounded nothing like her own.

Chetana shuffled to the full length mirror in the workshop and gasped. She recognized her own eyes, and her clothing, but her face was different. Her chin had gone from pointy and narrow to a wide square shape. The shape of Father’s jaw. But it was not that she had taken on her father’s appearance. Instead, she looked like a boy.

She grimaced and lifted her kameez so she could peek inside of her shalwar. It was not just that she looked like a boy, she discovered. Somehow, she had become a boy.

Chetana kicked her father’s shoes off, still standing before the mirror. Immediately, her appearance changed back to her own.

Her head swam. It was the shoes, there was no doubt about that. But did that mean her father had only masqueraded as a man? Surely his brothers would know if he had been born a girl, but they had never said a word of the sort. And then Chetana realized why her uncles had not allowed her to see her dead father.

The gemstones on the curled toes of the mojari gleamed in the lights of the shop. Chetana was drawn to them, so much more comfortable than her own shoes. How her life would be different if she were not the cobbler’s daughter, but his son. She wondered if that was why Uncle Lochan had made such a point about putting the shoes up and out of reach.

Chetana picked up her father’s mojari and put them back on the door frame. Then she began digging through the piles of leather in the workshop for a similar shade.

BY THE TIME A year had passed, Chetana had learned much about the business of cobbling. Her uncle still had her work only on the decorative elements of the mojari he sold, but she had been working on making a pair of shoes in secret. They looked nearly identical to her father’s mojari—she had even taken the time to wear them in the rain and dust to make sure they were worn out in the right places. Her feet were growing, and now were almost the same size as her father’s feet had been. With just a bit of straw in the toes, she could wear the new shoes comfortably.

Chetana’s feet were not the only growing feet. Again word came from the palace that the princess had outgrown her shoes. And again, Chetana asked Uncle Lochan if she might make the princess a pair of mojari. This year, her idea was inspired by a trip the family had taken to the seashore--the shoes would be simple natural colored leather, like the sand, but their adornment would be the gorgeous blues and greens of the sea. She had even brought back a handful of small shells she could use to decorate the shoes, having drilled delicate holes into each one with a blunted sewing needle.

“You are not a cobbler, Chetana,” Uncle Lochan said. “You are a cobbler’s daughter. I will allow you to choose what design you sew on the princess’s shoes, but I will make them. And if you are well behaved, perhaps you can come along with me to deliver the shoes to the palace.”

Chetana agreed, and planned to use the design she had in mind. But the mojari her uncle made were a dark and muddy green, and looked atrocious with the designs and colors she had chosen. She rubbed the outside of the shoes with sand, trying to change the color to be more like the sea, but the sand only served to make the mojari dirty. She chose an elaborate design to cover up as much of the dirty green as she could, and stayed up late into the night, neglecting work on her own shoes so she could finish the princess’s shoes instead.

When they were complete, Uncle Lochan took half an hour examining the shoes. His fat fingers probed Chetana’s tiny stitches, trying to unravel them. But try as he might, he could not. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. You have behaved admirably, and I have no desire to make the journey to the palace this year. You may take these to present to the princess.”

Chetana smiled and thanked her uncle. But making the journey on her own would be dangerous—a young woman should not travel the roads of the kingdom without an escort. She looked at her father’s mojari, still perched on the door frame, where they remained except for late at night, when she needed to make sure she had rendered a part of their design correctly.

She did not go to sleep that night, as she had additions to the pair of shoes she had made as a replacement for her father’s shoes. When the night was darkest, she slipped through the workshop with her handcrafted shoes. Uncle Lochan snored in his chair near the hearth, an empty jug of sura on its side nearby.

Chetana was not yet tall enough to reach the top of the door frame without assistance. Uncle Lochan’s feet rested on the stepstool she normally used. Her only option was to move her father’s workbench, now put away on the other side of the workshop.

The bench was too heavy for her to lift alone. When it needed to be moved during the course of the workday, she and Uncle Lochan moved it together. She could drag it across the floor if he were not around, but she knew the noise it made would wake even those sleeping deeper in the house.

She spied a wooden box that held shoe leathers. If she turned it on end, it would be almost as tall as the workbench, and she could stand on tiptoe to reach the mojari above the door. She emptied the box of its contents and placed it beneath the shoes.

Chetana tested the strength of the box with one foot at first, and then added her full weight to the box. It creaked ominously, but held her. Uncle Lochan’s snores continued. She released a slow breath before stretching toward the shoes. Their supple leather lay just out of reach of her fingertips. She stretched again, with more force than the previous attempt. The box teetered beneath her, and she lost her grip on her handmade shoes. She grabbed the door frame with one hand just as the box clattered to the workshop floor.

Uncle Lochan snorted and stirred. Chetana’s could drop to the floor and hope she landed quietly on the toppled box, or continue to hang from the door frame. She chose the latter, watching her uncle over her shoulder, eyes wide with fear.

Chetana’s arm burned with the strain of holding herself up. It seemed like an eternity before her uncle turned his head away from the doorway and resumed his snoring. Chetana grabbed her father’s shoes with her free hand and let go of the door frame, spreading her legs wide so she landed straddling the box she had used as a stepstool.

She sighed as she landed soundlessly. Setting her father’s shoes to the side, she reset the box and prepared to put her replacement shoes atop the door frame.

WEARING HER FATHER’S MOJARI, the long walk from home to the palace seemed less arduous. She had left before the sun came up, slipping out of the house before Uncle Lochan noticed her shoes or her sudden transformation into a boy. She had borrowed her father’s best suit of clothing, as her own hardly fit her when she wore the magical mojari. Chetana looked, for all the world, like a young man on a very important errand.

As she walked, she couldn’t help but marvel at how her father had lived his entire life in disguise. Had no one noticed he always wore his shoes, even indoors? Suddenly, Chetana felt faint. Surely it would not be permissible for her to wear her shoes into the palace.

She nearly turned back then and there. The only thing that kept her moving toward the palace was the certainty that Uncle Lochan would be furious with her if she did not deliver the shoes he had made to the princess.

Her first sight of the palace took Chetana’s mind off of the embarrassment that surely awaited her when she arrived. The gleaming white walls shone in the noonday sun, larger and more beautiful than any building in the town where she was born. Above the low outer wall, trees and tall flowering bushes splashed a riot of color in stark contrast to the clean white lines of the palace.

Chetana took a deep breath as she approached the guards at the gate to the palace. “I come with shoes for the princess,” she murmured.

One of the guards nodded. “She is receiving cobblers in the Western Garden.”

Chetana’s heart leapt. In the garden, no one would insist upon her taking her shoes off. Her secret would remain safe. She thanked the guard and nearly ran to the garden on the western side of the palace.

The Western Garden was abuzz with activity. Dozens of cobblers, some of whom had brought retinues, waited in a long line that snaked amongst the ornamental architecture and paths between a variety of flowers unlike anything Chetana had ever seen.

A young man with a scroll and quill approached her and looked her over. Chetana held the shoes forward, and the young man snorted. “Who made these shoes?”

“Ah, uh ...” Chetana stammered. Her father had never named his shop. It was the only one in their town, so there had been no need. She used the first thing she could think of. “The Household of Sashi.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “Sashi? We thought he had died.”

“He did. His brother, and, uh, myself, have carried on his work.”

“Hmm, brother and son, very well then.” He leaned close to Chetana’s ear and whispered as he gestured to the other cobblers nearby. “You’re going to have to work harder if you want the princess to choose your shoes.”

Chetana took a moment to look at what the other shoemakers had brought, and her heart sank. Uncle Lochan had made shoes fit for someone who lived in their town, not a princess. Around her were shoes with delicately cut leather, made to resemble a butterfly perched on the back of a pair of gold embroidered mojari. Another pair had iridescent peacock feathers layered atop one another to give the shoes they adorned wings.

She shook her head. Even her own idea would have looked shabby in comparison. As she began to turn away from the throng, settled on returning home, the young man tapped her on the shoulder.

“What’s your name?” he hissed.

“Uh, Chetan,” Chetana mumbled. She grimaced as soon as it had escaped her lips. Though there were boys called Chetan, it wasn’t very good as an alternate name. Anyone from her town who heard about it would know right away that she was simply Chetana in disguise.

But the young man wasn’t from her town. And as the princess and her mother approached Chetana, the young man called out, “May I present to you Chetan, of the Household of Sashi.”

The assembled cobblers murmured and craned their necks to try to get a glimpse of Chetan. But Chetana barely noticed. Her gaze was fixed on the princess.

Chetana had always been long of limb and face. The princess had a perfectly round face, and the plump body of a girl who had never worked. But she carried herself in such a way that she was radiant. The yellow silk of her sari complimented her soft brown skin and jet black hair that twined across her shoulder in an elaborate braid.

The princess’s gaze settled on the shoes Chetana held awkwardly in front of her. She pursed her lips, and then looked up into Chetana’s eyes. And then the princess smiled.

If the princess had been radiant before, now she outshone the sun itself. It took all of Chetana’s willpower to not fall to her knees, weeping at the beauty of the princess.

Only the princess’s soft voice brought Chetana’s mind back to reality. “Thank you, but I believe they are too large.” The princess arched one delicate foot toward Chetana. “Perhaps next year.”

Perhaps next year. Those three words echoed in Chetana’s mind for the entire journey back home. Already she was concocting a plan. She had made one pair of shoes while her uncle slept. Another pair, even mojari truly fit for a princess, was within the reach of her talents. Next year, she thought.

IN THE YEARS THAT followed, Chetana worked tirelessly through the day, helping Uncle Lochan run the shoe shop. And then she worked on through the night to make a pair of mojari for the princess. Each year, the queen announced the princess had outgrown her shoes, and each year, Chetana donned her father’s mojari to take the shoes she had made to the princess. Uncle Lochan always sent a pair of shoes with her as well, but those she tucked into the bottom of her bag.

Each year, the princess favored Chetan with a smile, but she never selected the shoes Chetana had made.

In the year the princess and Chetana were both to have their seventeenth birthday, rumors came to the village that the princess was in search of not only shoes, but also a suitor. They said she would choose her future husband from among the cobblers who brought mojari to the palace.

Uncle Lochan scoffed. “Why would the princess marry a common cobbler?” But Chetana watched him select the leather for the princess’s shoes even more carefully this year. And when he brought them to Chetana to embroider, he watched over her like a hawk, making sure every stitch was perfect.

Chetana took months to decide what shoes she would make for the princess that year. She also thought for all that time about what might happen if the princess chose the shoes she made. Surely, if that happened, Chetana would be asked to come inside the palace, and would have to take off her shoes. And then the truth of her gender would be revealed.

She considered not making a pair of shoes to enter into the competition. She could take Uncle Lochan’s shoes to the palace, and if the princess chose them, then Chetana could direct the girl to her uncle. But the thought of the beautiful princess marrying to her uncle, who had already buried two wives, seemed abhorrent. Perhaps she should make the shoes, even if she could not marry the princess.

The thought of marrying the princess caused a sudden warm stirring in Chetana’s belly. At first, she did not know what to make of it. But then she noticed the feeling came whenever a young woman who looked like the princess walked past, or came into the shop. Though it was not the same as when she thought about the princess herself, she began to realize that her feelings were adoration for the princess’s beauty. She wondered if that might be something like love.

Chetana settled on a simple design for the princess’s shoes, yellow leather the color of the dress that had so flattered the princess’s skin, with a pattern of interlocking hearts in a simple embroidery pattern. Though they did not have the flash that many of the mojari made for the princess had, they were elegant and lovely. Just like her, Chetana thought.

Getting the embroidery just right was difficult. Chetana stayed up many long nights, working on the shoes and thinking of the princess.

One morning, she was awakened with a rough shake of her shoulder. Uncle Lochan glared at her from beneath dark eyebrows.

“What are those shoes for?” he asked.

Chetana had fallen asleep in the workshop, on her father’s bench. The princess’s mojari were in front of her, in plain sight. She tried to snatch them up, but her uncle grabbed her arms and repeated his question.

“I made them for the princess,” she cried.

“For the princess? Why? She is searching for a suitor.”

Chetana looked up at her uncle. His gaze flickered toward the shoes Chetana had put atop the doorframe, in place of her father’s actual mojari. Then he looked back at her, and the two of them stared at one another for a long time.

Finally, Uncle Lochan spoke. “You are not a cobbler. You are only a cobbler’s daughter. No princess will wear shoes you have made, let alone want to marry you. I will journey to the palace this year. You will stay here.” He picked up the shoes Chetana had slaved over and threw them into the smoldering hearth.

Chetana wailed and rushed to the fireplace. The smell of singed leather reached her nostrils. She thrust her hands into the embers, barely feeling their heat. The beautiful yellow shoes were now gray with soot, blackened in places where the embers had already scorched them. “Why, uncle? Why must you be so cruel?”

“The world is cruel, Chetana. Get used to it.”

AS SOON AS UNCLE Lochan left the next morning, Chetana emerged from her bedroom. She had made the best of the damage instead of sleeping. Where the shoes had been scorched, she had cut out the leather, shaping the holes into hearts that matched those embroidered. Then she added more heart-shaped holes to make the mojari look like they had been fashioned that way originally. All that remained was to clean the last traces of soot from the leather, and to get to the palace by nightfall, without Uncle Lochan seeing her there.

Chetana paused in front of the mirror, her father’s mojari on her feet. She looked every bit a young man, except her hair was far too long to be fashionable for a young man. She stepped out of the shoes and ran her hands through her long, straight hair. It had not been cut since her father had died.

Tears rolled down her face as she sharpened her scissors. It took a long time to saw through the first handful of hair. The dark brown strands spilled across the workshop floor, but Chetana did not bother to sweep them up. She would not be returning from the palace. She would offer her services to the princess, and if the princess did not want a royal cobbler, then Chetana would continue onward and find a village in need of someone to make them shoes.

It was nearing noonday when Chetana began her journey to the palace. She hurried as fast as she could, clutching the princess’s mojari to her chest. The clouds were tinged pink and orange by the time she reached the palace.

The same young man with quill and scroll who had introduced Chetan to the assembled cobblers and palace residents the first time Chetana had come to the palace was on duty. He seemed to recognize Chetan but only frowned.

“Am I too late?” Chetan asked.

“No, but there is already a representative of the Household of Sashi who has presented his shoes to the princess.”

“Can I not present mine as well?”

The scribe frowned. “In the past, the princess has seen only one pair of mojari from each shop. Wait here, please.”

Chetana’s fingers worried over the largest of the heart-shaped holes in the shoes while the scribe was away. Lost in contemplation, she hardly noticed when someone sat down beside her on the bench.

“Are those for me?” a soft voice said.

Chetana looked up and found herself face to face with the princess. None of the princess’s retinue was anywhere to be seen. Trying to hide her shock, Chetana said, “Yes, of course, but the scribe ... my uncle ...”

The princess tilted her head to the side, a small frown creasing her brow. “May I try them on?”

Chetana nodded, pushing the shoes across the bench toward the princess.

The princess smiled and removed her old mojari. She slipped her delicate feet into the pair Chetana had made. A satisfied smile replaced her frown. The princess’s gaze met Chetana’s.

“I would know your name.”

“I am ...” Chetana began. Then she shook her head. She could not lie to the princess. She rose from the bench and stepped out of her father’s mojari. “I am but a cobbler’s daughter. I am Chetana, daughter of Sashi.”

The princess gasped. She looked at Chetana’s face, then at the shoes, and then back at Chetana’s face again. “You’re ... Sashi ... oh dear,” she stammered.

“No, no,” Chetana said. I’m not Sashi. Sashi was my father. Or perhaps my mother. The shoes ... there’s magic in those shoes. I’m sorry if I deceived you. I just wanted to make shoes you would like.”

The princess smiled as Chetana spoke, and finally quieted the cobbler’s daughter with a single finger placed on her lips. “You didn’t deceive me. I knew all along. The shoes you make are far more delicate and beautiful than anything made by men.” She paused, a blush creeping over her features. “I would like for you to make my shoes for me.”

“But what about a suitor?” Chetana asked. “Won’t you still need one of those?”

“I don’t particularly want one. Not yet, anyway.” The princess smiled shyly. “Perhaps someday, when we have gotten to know each other, you could be my suitor. Though I suppose I would have to pass a law to allow you to wear your shoes indoors.”

About the Author

Dawn Vogel writes and edits both fiction and non-fiction. Her academic background is in history, so it’s not surprising that much of her fiction is set in earlier times. By day, she edits reports for historians and archaeologists. In her alleged spare time, she runs a craft business, co-edits Mad Scientist Journal, and tries to find time for writing. She is a member of Broad Universe and an associate member of SFWA. Her steampunk series, Brass and Glass, is being published by Razorgirl Press. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their herd of cats. Visit her at historythatneverwas.com.

FLY

KRISTIN KIRBY

NICHOLS IS YELLING AND waving his arms about something when Brenner brings Luke in for their last meal before they head out.

“Enough with the Tourette’s, Nichols,” Brenner says. “Just serve the damn eggs.”

“Look!” Nichols jabs a finger toward the window. “It’s space! It’s space, and we still can’t get away from the damn things!”

“Actually, it’s a planet,” Luke jokes. But Brenner shoots him a frown, so he shuts up.

They notice the fly repeatedly butt up against the station’s one window, hear the high whining buzz. Its buckshot body reflects blue-green in the sunlight. They have a stowaway.

“They’re in the ship, all the way here. They get on the food. And now they’re in the station. Where the hell do they come from?” Nichols demands, waving the spatula.

Luke wolfs four helpings of eggs and toast and bacon and coffee. The eggs are powdered, the toast flat, the bacon dry, the coffee stale—but it’s the most delicious meal Luke has eaten in months. Nichols just keeps making more, and eventually he forgets about the fly, and Luke listens to him and Brenner talk about home and how they got all the way out here.

Nichols had been a pilot in the war and afterwards wanted to travel. He’d flown freight and passengers for years. “And saw more godforsaken corners of the galaxy than anyone should,” he adds with a chuckle. “But it’s all good.”

Brenner just went where the company told him, scouting planets to find those with the right conditions. He points out the window at the yellowish sky.

“This is what they tend to pick. Uninhabited, of course. Some atmosphere. This one’s better than most because of the stable temps. Hot but not too hot. You’ll do all right.”

“I went to school to be a pilot,” Luke says.

“Oh, get your license?” Nichols asks.

“No,” Luke says. “I didn’t finish.”

A pause. Brenner finally says, “Look where we all ended up.”

Luke packs his handful of clothes, slips on his granddad’s class ring, and he’s set to go. He got the ring at the old man’s deathbed twenty-eight years before. It’s all Luke has left of him, of any of his family. The stone, a blue zircon he remembers, fell out years ago. But the gold band has held up pretty good.

The three men put on soft suits, gloves, and helmets for the trip out. Nichols drives, Brenner beside him. Luke is in back, and after a few miles they cover his helmet so he can’t see where he’s going.

The soft suit feels cool, the air circulating well. The helmet is hot, though, and constrictive, and the cover makes him claustrophobic. Luke doesn’t know how long they drive over rocky dirt, sometimes swooping up and down through hilly areas, sometimes changing course or even doubling back. He guesses about four hours, but he can’t get a feel for time with the sensory deprivation.

They finally stop, and Brenner removes the cover from Luke’s helmet.

“Last stop,” Luke murmurs.

They all get out. The planet’s sun is bright. The wind is hard enough to make Luke sway before he catches himself.

Brenner asks him, “Want me to send a message to anyone back home?”

Luke shakes his head. “There’s no one.”

Brenner hands Luke a pack. “That’s six liters of water. Should be enough to get you there if you drink sparingly. The facility is 94 miles due east.” Brenner taps the tracker module on the wrist of Luke’s soft suit. “Stay in a straight line and follow the coordinates. You’ll find it.”

“Food?”

“No food.”

“It could be three days.”

“More like four, ‘cause you’ll be weaker and slower toward the end,” Nichols says.

Brenner gives Luke a steady gaze. “No food.”

Luke considers the eastern horizon. Nothing but dirt and rock, some flat, some hilly, some mountainous. No plant life. No life at all.

“Most make it, we hear,” Nichols says.

“Is there really a prison there? Or am I just wandering in the desert until I die?”

“That’s part of it,” Brenner says flatly. “You don’t know for sure.”

“Some of ‘em turn around and try to follow us back,” Nichols says. “The wind erases the tire tracks fast, so they really are just wandering. And to a dead end. Follow your tracker. Go east.”

“Thanks for the eggs,” Luke says.

It takes everything he has, but Luke doesn’t turn around, not even when he hears the truck head back the way they came. Its rumble fades behind him, and soon it’s gone. As he starts going east, all he hears is the wind and his boots plodding on the dirt.

The mountains and foothills are a dull orange, and so is the dirt and rock that covers it. They take him back to when he lived in southern California. At least there was scrub and cactus and some trees there, but not here.

Still, it comforts him. He pretends he’s walking Indian Canyon or the trails outside of Palm Springs, saying good morning to other hikers and their little dogs. Occasionally there would be a plastic baggy of scooped poop on the side of the trail, and it would be there days later, because the dog owner would have forgotten to pick it up. And at the height of hiking season there’d be several baggies, which always made Luke think of the dead bodies of hikers littered along the trail to the top of Everest.

He trudges along, keeps his pace steady. And then, a high, whiny buzz in his helmet. At first he thinks the wind is playing tricks on his ears. Then he sees the dark bullet shape in his peripheral vision.

A fly, or maybe the same fly from that morning, has hitched a ride somewhere in his soft suit and made its way to his helmet.

It lands on his cheek. He flinches, hits the flat of his palm hard on the faceplate. The fly takes off fast, whizzing around Luke’s head in angry ellipses punctuated by its frantic whine-buzz.

Luke removes his helmet, the pneumatic seal unhitching with a whoosh. The fly swoops up, is waylaid sideways by the wind, then corrects its course and flies off, seemingly as happy to be free as Luke is to be rid of it.

What did Nichols say? “Can’t get away from ‘em,” Luke murmurs, and laughs.

He takes tentative sips of air. It tastes thin and chalky and old, like the inside of an empty room. He experiments with deeper breaths as he walks. Too deep and he inhales the orange dust carried in the wind, so shallow is better. He finds if he takes some hits off the air intake tube every few minutes, it’s doable.

The sun is hot on his head without the helmet’s protection, though, so he digs into his pack, finds a T-shirt, and wraps it into a sort of turban. It’s comforting and soaks up his sweat.

And he walks, helmet swinging in his hand.

The wind makes a sound, which is why he doesn’t notice at first when the fly is back. But there’s its tiny shadow looping around the orange dirt at his feet, the high-pitched whiny hum around his head. The fly lands on Luke’s neck. He brushes at it, causing it to fly up and circle him. Soon it lands on him again. He keeps swatting at it.

“Want to feast on my corpse? Then lay eggs and hatch a new colony of vermin? I don’t think so.”

Every time he feels the tickling, he swats at the fly. Finally it gets the hint and buzzes away against the wind. Luke watches it disappear into the yellow horizon before he continues onward.

The sun is relentless, but the helmet is too stifling to wear, so Luke drinks some water instead, careful to take just a few sips. This has to last—the equivalent of three days on Earth, maybe four. And if the prison is all a lie, maybe for many days.

The sun beats down. He walks. The mountains on the horizon never seem to get any closer. After eight hours and almost 26 miles—he keeps track on the module—he comes to an area of boulders as big as cars, some as big as houses. His granddad’s ring slips down his sweaty finger, but he catches it before it can fall off. He sits down in the shade to rest.

A day on this planet lasts almost an Earth month, so he knows there will be no nightfall, no real relief from the heat and glare. This will have to do. Soon his eyes droop.

He hears, as he always does, the click of the detonator and a second later the explosion. When he opens his eyes, he’s disoriented, checks his tracker module to see two hours have passed. His lungs feel like they’re being squeezed, and he quickly finds the air intake and huffs oxygen.

Getting to his feet, he thinks he hears the fly. But no, it’s the wind making that whine. He starts walking, taking precious sips of water.

He’s glad he ate so much breakfast; otherwise, he’d be hungrier.

He negotiates hilly areas, nothing too steep, and then a flat expanse of pockmarked dirt and dusty horizon. He checks his module to see another three hours have gone by.

And where is the fly? Did it discover other company on this godforsaken rock? Maybe it found its way back to the station and nonchalantly buzzed inside when Nichols opened the door for a smoke. Maybe it’s lapping reconstituted maple syrup off the kitchen counter right now. Or maybe it’s miles ahead at the prison, lapping sweat off the neck of another poor bastard like himself.

Ten hours later, when his eyes hurt from the relentless glare and he’s walked only four more hours and then slept or sat the rest of the time, that breakfast seems like years ago. Forty-six miles, so he’s almost halfway. But it’s hot, he’s tired, and he knows he needs to pace himself even as he wastes precious time. The odds he’ll even make it are against him. He knows that too.

An hour later he stares up the side of a steep, rocky foothill. Brenner told him to follow the coordinates. Too easy to lose your way. So he sips some water and then starts climbing. No food, but there will be food when he gets there. And people to let him in. If it even exists. If it isn’t a lie, like all the other lies in his life. All the times they said they’d be there and they weren’t.

Back on level ground four hours and eight miles later, he decides if the fly was here, he’d eat it. One satisfying crunch. And a gulp of water to wash it down.

Exhausted, he sits and rests. And sleeps. When he hears the detonator click and a second later the explosion, he jolts awake. He looks east and almost doesn’t get to his feet. But he does.

Has the fly discovered food somewhere out there in the orange rock and dirt? Should he try to find it? Something edible to a fly would probably be edible to a human. How much DNA did they share? Sixty percent, that’s what he heard somewhere, probably in prison before. Sixty percent.

Three more hours, and he veers left. The fly went this way, right? No, that was long ago. He corrects his course. Two more hours, and he goes left again, then forces himself back on track. Now he’s delirious? Sun mad? Going off course to see if the fly found food—he’s off his nut. If he’s this bad already, what’s going to happen in the next several hours? He has to keep it together.

He checks his tracker module. Sixty-four miles. He checks his water. How does he have just two liters left?

He realizes somewhere along the way he dropped his helmet. Not that he was using it, but he turns, looking. He trips, then catches himself. Some rocks shift, and he starts to slide, boots scuffing. It’s only a short hill, but he stumbles to one knee and skids down. He shouts as agony arrows through his kneecap.

For a moment he catches his breath, then tries to get up. No dice.

Nearby are more large boulders giving off meager shade. He crawls back up the hill and sits heavily against them and wipes the sweat off his crusty face. He holds his knee and rocks and gasps at the pain.

He could have been a pilot and seen all the corners of the galaxy, too, just like Nichols, if he’d finished the program. But he’d had to quit and get a job. He’d always meant to go back. But other people had spouses or relatives to help them with the bills. He didn’t have anybody.

And that story about the prison? Just 94 miles east, just follow the tracker. Right. If he didn’t trip here, he would have soon tripped over the carcasses of the other prisoners before him they fed that lie to, all trying to get there, all hoping someone was waiting to let them in. Of course there’s no prison. This is the punishment.

He knows his odds have tanked. He’s already dead. It just won’t be official until the water runs out.

He slouches, his back to the rock, and closes his eyes against the glare of the sun.

When he hears the click of the detonator and then the explosion, he realizes he’s fallen asleep again. He feels the detonator still in his hand, watches a hundred people on fire stumble and fall and become blackened bodies, hears a high-pitched whine-buzz.

Luke starts awake at the tickle on the back of his neck. His hand comes up to swat, but instead he opens his eyes and lowers his hand. It’s drinking. It’s just thirsty after all. Like he is.

He reaches carefully down for his tracker module. The fly stays put on his neck. He doesn’t even feel it now, only sees in the dirt its tiny pebble shadow blended with his. He holds up the tracker screen angled against the sun, catches a wobbly reflection of the fly as it grooms itself, its bulbous red eyes cocked at the sky.

The ambient noise is gone, the air clearer. The wind has died to almost nothing. Luke realizes the wind has done its work, though, as he sucks at his air intake tube. Clogged with dust. He draws harder and gets a thin feed.

Luke savors the last few sips of his water. Then, careful not to make sudden movements that would disturb the fly, he struggles to one foot. The fly stays. Twelve hours of wasted time, but resting did him good. He puts weight on his bad leg, knows the knee is swollen and hard under his suit. He feels a dull but doable pain. Time to get moving, and at first it’s in clumsy jerks, but soon he eases into a steady limp.

The fly, his faithful stowaway, stays put. Thirty miles to go. The sun, now more intense in the clearer atmosphere, beats in Luke’s eyes. Somewhere he lost his T-shirt turban, and he worries the river of sweat on his neck might be too much. But the fly hangs on, steadfast, its shadow a sturdy lump. One crunch, a gulp of water, but then where would he be? Still hungry and alone.

Luke hobbles along. He makes his mind blank, thinking only of his forward motion and the fly on his neck. His leg is numb below his engorged knee. His mouth is raw and dry. His chest is a tight spring. When his sweat starts to plop and splatter in the orange dirt, though, he gets uneasy. It’s liquid. It should be conserved.

He pauses to check his tracker: almost 83 miles. Eleven more to go before he can rest and eat. At this pace, a day’s walk. Normally much less, but for him a day.

The top of his head burns, making him dizzy. He needs to cover it. But as he reaches for his pack, the commotion disturbs the fly. It rises into the air, and he freezes. It makes a jerky, uneven circle, lands again on Luke’s neck. He realizes the fly is as weak as he is.

Bigger drops of sweat splatter down. He can’t stand it, stumbles to the dirt and puts his lips to the wetness. The fly whirs upward, struggling. Luke turns, cries out as the tiny body drops to the ground. It thrashes in a frantic, whining circle. Luke reaches a shaking hand but then draws back. The fly tries to walk, falls over, totters to its feet. It falls to its back. Its legs twitch.

Luke sprawls lower and lays his cheek on the ground, eye to fly. It twitches and buzzes, is still, twitches and buzzes again. Luke’s tight chest heaves. His ragged breaths puff on the orange dirt.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean it.” It’s all he can manage. He hopes the fly sees a thousand images of him looking back at it. That would be comforting—having a thousand friends with you when you go.

For several minutes, the world is only dust and sun and the fading struggles of the fly. Even when it’s finally quiet, Luke doesn’t get up, but obsessively checks his tracker module. An hour passes with no movement, no twitch. Only then does Luke slide another T-shirt from his pack and wrap it around his sweaty head.

He scoops a slow handful of orange dirt, then another. He carefully cups the fly in his palm. It shimmers blue green as Luke places it in the hole he’s made. After a moment, Luke slips off his granddad’s ring and snugs it next to the fly. He doesn’t have any words, but he bows his head. He thinks of all the places the fly has been in its short life. He covers the grave with dirt and tamps it so the wind doesn’t kick it up.

Wiping sweat from his face, Luke gets to weary feet, sways a moment. He takes a shallow, dusty hit of oxygen. A day’s walk, that’s all. A day. He limps off, his bloodshot gaze on the yellow horizon.

About the Author

Kristin Kirby is an award-winning fiction writer, screenwriter, and editor who currently makes her home in the Pacific Northwest. Her poems and short stories have appeared in Space and Time, 365tomorrows, ECM Magazine, Eldritch Tales, and other publications. Her short story “Meat” was a finalist in the Masters Review Fiction contest, her novella “Maze” was a semifinalist in the ScreenCraft Short Story contest, and her novel Frightful was a finalist in the Launch Pad manuscript contest. When she’s not writing, Kristin enjoys traveling, watching noir movies, restoring antique furniture, and carrying on her never-ending quest to find the best Italian restaurant on the planet.

A MOMENT OF CRUELTY

ANDREW JOHNSON

PROFESSOR ARCHIBALD TAGGART RECLINED in the passenger seat of the battered CJ, barely registering the rough ride along the barely marked path as he admired the dense tropical forest on either side of the vehicle. The rotund old man, clad in pearl garments and his vintage safari vest and casually puffing on a cherry pipe, hardly seemed like the adventurer, but this was not a new trip for the wizened anthropologist. In his wayfaring days he’d voyaged at least a dozen times into the great rainforest in search of a trace of a forgotten civilization or a village spared by the ravages of colonialism. In his advancing years, the professor had left the exploration behind in favor of a more institutional role, a point of continual shame for a man of his reputation. It was this regret as much as his curiosity that sent him in search of the young peer who’d summoned him to this remote location.

The CJ came to a stop at the edge of a temporary settlement in a small clearing, a larger indigenous village just visible beyond the hastily raised shacks of the researchers. Professor Taggart thanked the driver and sent him away, so lost in the moment that he nearly forgot to fetch his case. A few seconds passed before a man emerged from one of the shacks. He was slender and short, his unlined face covered in patchy hair that made him look too young to be so far from civilization.

The man waved with such vigor that his whole body shifted. “Professor Taggart, you’ve made it! I pray that your trip was not unduly difficult. It was the height of foolishness to call you away from the university and what must have been critical work.”

Professor Taggart laughed at the young man’s supplication. “Nonsense, Professor Cole, nonsense. What endeavor could possibly be more critical to anthropology than fieldwork? And oh, how long it’s been since I’ve been out in the field myself! It’s a shame—a humiliation even! Besides, I always make time for young colleagues who claim that they’ve opened holes in my hypotheses. Right or wrong, those endeavors are always fascinating.”

Professor Cole cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that’s why I was reluctant to send word back to the university. I have nothing but respect, indeed the highest of respect for you -”

“Then tear me down, man! Nothing fills an old professor’s heart with uplift like his peers sharpening their claws on his theory—it means he’s not forgotten! Although...”

“Yes, Professor?”

Professor Taggart chewed at the end of his pipe. “...Although I must admit that, for a time before coming to this site, I questioned the validity—perhaps even the sanity— of your findings. Surely we’re accustomed to discovering unusual elements in the societies of these lost tribes but...a tribe with no concept of authority? One with no chieftans or generals or overseers? Among hunter-gatherers perhaps, but a sedentary group with no leadership—it challenges credulity!”

“Of course I understand your skepticism, and I would share it were it not for the things I’ve seen here. Indeed, it would be best to just observe for the time being. The village is this way, Professor.”

Lost tribes were not new to Professor Taggart, though he’d never encountered one as structurally advanced as this. The buildings were much larger than he’d expected—some featuring multiple stories—and even at a distance showed signs of delicate work. Many of them were clearly specialized, set aside for storage or worship or recreation. A few villagers milled around at what appeared to be a site for a future building, carrying materials for the new expansion.

“This is most interesting, Professor Cole.” Professor Taggart crouched next to one of the buildings to better study its foundations. “I’d not expected to see such large and substantial structures in a society so developmentally simple.”

“It does offer a striking counterexample to the Cruel Theory.”

“The Cruel Theory!” Professor Taggart let loose a zealous laugh. “I’d forgotten about that sobriquet. The popular press can be so simpleminded—postulate that autocracy is a necessary condition to reach certain developments and they tag you as some apologist for tyranny!”

Ignoring Professor Taggart’s whimsy, Professor Cole cleared his throat and continued. “In your theory, you identified 32 key developments that were tied inexorably to the social order brought about by strong central rule. You argued that a more decentralized society might stumble upon a few of the outlying developments by chance, but certainly not more than three or four.”

“And this society?”

“...Has developed twelve of them, including a formal written history.”

“Simply impossible! How could a people write a heroic epic without heroes? And how could they built so prolifically and skillfully without outside coordination? Professor Cole, I fear your attachment to this site may have blinded you to something fundamental. Perhaps these people have an unusual form of authority but it is authority all the same.”

“No, Professor Taggart, they truly have no need for such things.” Professor Cole tipped his head toward the construction site. “I believe you’ll soon see why.”

Dropping their gathered resources, the villagers at the site gathered around a pile of simple tools and bickered with each other in a tongue whose origin Professor Taggart couldn’t quite place. At first, the scene had the look of a brewing melee. Suddenly the villagers went silent, frozen for a few moments as though each was reaching for some ancestral memory. The trance broke and each man took a tool from the pile and launched into the task. Professor Taggart had never seen anyone move with such speed or precision, let alone both, but perhaps most impressive was their coordination. Not a step was repeated, no effort wasted, no dispute to be seen among the workers – and yet they did not speak or signal to each other in any obvious manner. Their actions were perfectly unified.

Professor Taggart stared at the scene in numb wonder. “Professor Cole...had I not witnessed it personally, I’d never believe it! Even among professional soldiers, I’ve never seen such unity of purpose! And with no obvious outside direction!”

“I’m humbled to hear such praise from you, Professor.”

“Truly, there’s not enough praise to give! Imagine what we could accomplish if we could refine their techniques into a model for our own society...”

“That’s...that’s beyond my expertise, Professor.” Professor Cole turned away from his elder, eyes cast to the ground.

“But certainly there’s a way!” Professor Taggart stroked his chin. “Hmm...I must study this further. I’ll wire back to the university and cancel my engagements for the next four weeks. Oh, this could be an impressive interdisciplinary project...”

Then there was a new voice: “Indubitably, Professor Taggart.”

Professor Taggart turned to the new arrival. Much taller than Professor Taggart and well-built to boot, he had penetrating hazel eyes and assertively angular features thinly concealed beneath a coarse beard. He had the countenance of a great hawk preparing for the hunt. Professor Taggart easily recognized the man, for there were few within his academic circles who possessed such an impressive bearing.

“I know you. Professor...Schell, correct?” said Professor Taggart. “Biology, specialized in entomology as memory serves. But what does an accomplished student of beetles expect to find here?”

“My team was collecting data on a termite supercolony nearby,” said Professor Schell. “My meeting with the anthropology team was merely happenstance, but I felt compelled to stay. It hardly takes an anthropologist to understand the weight of this discovery.”

“Indeed, Professor Schell. And there may well be a place for the biological sciences on some future interdisciplinary panel concerning these people and their society. I wouldn’t dare pull you away from your own research -”

“As a matter of fact, Professor Taggart...” Professor Schell strode in between the two smaller men. “...the anthropology team has been consulting with me. It seems that there’s little that’s particularly novel about this society as such, and there’s been some speculation that there is a biological basis for the exceptional coordination you just witnessed.”

“And you have an opinion on this?” said Professor Taggart.

“It’s the most likely explanation, Professor. I believe that these people possess some unique adaptation, a primitive vestigial trait that’s been reactivated by the environment. Pheromone transmission, perhaps.” Professor Schell crossed his arms and raised his chin to the sun. “Given a few million dollars and ten years, I could attempt to prove this, but you know how tightly the wallets are closed now.”

“Of course. It seems that this discovery will have to remain a curiosity for the time being.” Professor Taggart held in a chuckle. “Even so, I’d like to stay on for a few days and observe myself. I’ve not felt so exhilarated since my first trip down the Amazon and I think I shall preserve this sensation for a bit longer.”

Professor Cole swallowed back his tension. “I’ve prepared quarters for you, Professor. I’m sure you need rest after your long trip.”

PROFESSOR TAGGART’S QUARTERS WERE located in a prefabricated building at the edge of the research encampment. The small space—set aside for the Professor alone, granting him the rare luxury of privacy—contained a cot, folding desk, lightweight chair, small battery-powered lamp and various medical provisions.

“Excuse the conditions,” said Professor Cole. “I assure you, we did set aside the best of our facilities for your use.”

“Always so eager to apologize?” said Professor Taggart. “Why, compared to the places we slept when I began my career, this is positively palatial! And private, to boot!”

Professor Cole was silent for an agonizing moment. “Professor, I don’t mean to intrude on your time, and I’m sure you are weary...” He fidgeted like a small child struggling to hide a guilty act. “...Perhaps it’s best if I save this for tomorrow.”

“Nonsense! If it’s important, you should have it out now! Slumber was never among my vices, least of all while in the field.” Professor Taggart produced a bag of tobacco, packing his pipe with practiced skill. “What is on your mind?”

“I’m...afraid that we’ve deceived you somewhat, Professor.”

Professor Taggart looked up from his pipe. “In what way, Professor Cole? Was there some trickery at play in what we saw earlier?”

“Not at all, Professor. In the months our team has observed these people, we’ve chronicled at least a hundred such feats. Our deception did not lie in the feat but in our explanation.”

“If this is not an adaptation, then there must be an environmental cause, correct?”

“Indeed.”

“And why hide such a thing?”

“Please, Professor, I’ll explain that in time, but first there is more you need to know.”

“Very well.” Professor Taggart lowered a match into his pipe and perched himself astride the too-small chair. “Tell me of your discovery.”

Professor Cole glanced at the door a few times before beginning. “We can’t conclusively identify a cause, but it is certainly linked to this particular section of jungle. There are a few unusual microorganisms in the area, as well as a form of fungal colony that we’ve never observed. Perhaps one of these organisms has some symbiotic effect with the human brain, or perhaps there is some chemical oddity causing the emergence of the organisms as well as this swarm intelligence. Mere speculation, Professor. We are not equipped for such analysis.”

“Speculation, indeed. I can’t reckon why you are so positive that this trait is not adaptive.”

“I know because I’ve experienced it myself. And not me alone, but the other researchers as well.”

Professor Taggart leaned forward, a hungry light behind his eyes. “Experienced it?”

“And on numerous occasions, Professor. I can’t speak for the others, but my own first experience with the phenomenon was on our second week here as we struggled to establish our semi-permanent camp. My team is rich in academic knowledge, but our skills in the practical arts are limited, and we struggled both to erect the structures and to keep them standing. Lacking organization, we jostled each other, performed redundant tasks or overlooked critical errors. And then, as I fumbled with the gear, I felt an unfamiliar sensation that ran to the core of my being.”

“What manner of sensation?”

“How to describe it...” Professor Cole seated himself on the edge of the cot, balancing on the flimsy relic with as much skill as his nerves would allow. “...Have you ever had an idea suddenly drift into your conscious mind and felt compelled to act on it? A flash of inspiration that seized you from nowhere? At once I felt like my thoughts were being pulled, but also as though I could pull on the thoughts of those around me, our minds linked by cords immaterial. The sensation lasted no more than a few seconds, and then...then we built with a zeal and adroitness that none of us had ever known. I knew, on a level deeper than my senses, what my colleagues were doing, where they were, and what I must do to aid them. And when we were finished, I spoke with the others, and each had felt that same pulling. I’d dismiss it as an artifact of stress, except that it happened again and again, with ever greater frequency.”

“Then you summoned Professor Schell to further study this phenomenon?”

“He arrived by chance and expressed skepticism, until he experienced it as well. He is a man of strong opinions and infinite curiosity, and this aroused his interest.”

“One can easily imagine why!” Professor Taggart shot to his feet; the pipe fell from between his teeth and cracked on the ground but he was too ecstatic to notice. “Ye God, man, do you realize what this could mean? If the cause of this phenomenon could be isolated, if it could be replicated under controlled conditions, if it could be synthesized...well, I’m on a flight of fancy perhaps, but imagine the applications! If it could have such an astonishing impact on a society as simple as this, then what might it do for our own? The end of misadventure at construction sites and loading docks would merely be the start. We could develop new diagnostic tests for the psychologically disturbed, new protocols for academic collaboration, educational techniques...or why think so small?” He had a wild and rapturous grin, the look of a man awaiting the arrival of a great dream. “With the proper administration, this could end a war! It could fight the scourge of bigotry in all its forms! It could be the next great evolutionary step for mankind!”

“I know, Professor, and I agree, but there are those among our number who are concerned as well. Truth be told, my opinion places me in the minority. And the others surely have a point as there could be more troubling applications for such a technology. Should it be employed by one with dreams of control or conquest, then the results could be most dire.”

Professor Taggart retrieved his pipe, wiped off the grime and returned it to his pocket. “Yes, Professor Cole, but such is the case of any breakthrough. I agree that this discovery must be carefully controlled, but it would be an insult to humanity and...indeed, to science, to leave it a secret.” He placed a reassuring hand on his peer’s shoulder. “It’s so very rare that one gains the opportunity to change the course of humanity, to repair the world. It is not ours to deny that call.”

“Of course, Professor. I don’t see any harm coming in showing you some of the samples we’ve taken. You can take them back to the university and run some preliminary tests. I only ask that you mind what you say. As I said, my opinion on the matter is decidedly unpopular. It’s best that you remain a bit discreet.”

“I’ll endeavor to keep my flamboyant soul in check,” said Professor Taggart. “Now, let’s see the samples you’ve gathered.”

The two men crossed the clearing to another shack, this one lacking the outward personal flourishes that marked the other shacks. The area appeared deserted, the researchers having ended their day’s work and retired to their own quarters for a few hours of recreation. Then Professor Schell appeared in the doorway, regarding the two men with an emotionless look. Professor Cole paused at once, his breath caught in his chest, but Professor Taggart approached him as though it were just another casual meeting.

“Professor Schell! Burning the candle at both ends, I see.”

“Our work never truly ends, but then a man as accomplished as you surely knows this.” Professor Schell shifted his gaze to his younger colleague. “Can I assume that you’ve discussed our findings with Professor Taggart?”

“There’s no need to be cross with him,” said Professor Taggart. “He merely proffered a few details, nothing of a proprietary nature.”

“Then you’ve come to the work building for your health?” Professor Schell smiled coolly. “You intended to fetch data for your interdisciplinary project, yes?”

“I understand your concerns,” said Professor Taggart, his voice filling with passion. “But a discovery as revolutionary as this can’t be concealed from the world because of the plans of some villain. If we followed those guidelines, science would have to come to a dead halt! We should all retire to the hermitage!”

“The shopworn refrain of the ruiner, to cast his opponents as Luddites.” Professor Schell’s composure slid until he was matching Professor Taggart’s volume. “You know as well as I what happens when the technological capacity of a people exceeds their threshold for enlightenment. No, better—it was your area of expertise. Small wonder that a man who considered despotism an evolutionary step would so eagerly embrace a means to tyrannize a man’s mind.”

The other researchers appeared at the doors of their quarters, drawn by the sound of rancor not normally heard in staid academic circles. Professor Taggart was aware of a crowd gathering around him, their eyes shifting between him and the hawkish man at the door of the research shack. It reminded him of nothing as much as the playground, the children gathering in hopes of witnessing a scrap between two rivals.

“Not bad enough that my life’s work be tarnished in the popular press, I now have to endure this indignity from a peer as well? Laymen may view us as...as sorcerers meddling in dark forces, but to hear such talk from...” Professor Taggart caught himself at the verge of screaming. Taking a deep breath, he brought himself back to Earth. “...Look at us! Look at how eagerly we’ve shed rationality in favor of argument by volume!”

“So true,” said Professor Schell. “But then, rationality is seldom a critical deciding factor, even among our own ranks.”

“Then let us regain it!” Professor Taggart extended his hand to Professor Schell. “Come, let us discuss this as men of calm intellect. Surely we can reach a consensus.”

Professor Schell shook his head. “Sorry, but we’ve found a more efficient means of decision making than your discourse. Indeed, as you’ve been speaking, the decision was made.”

Professor Schell shut his eyes, his face tightening into an unreadably stoic expression. Hearing commotion behind him, Professor Taggart turned to the crowd of researchers. They were upon him with such speed that he had no time to process what he was witnessing—only primitive fear registered in his mind. Each of the researchers wielded a utility knife which he used with lethal efficiently. One by one they drove their blades into Professor Taggart’s flesh, each individual thrust bypassing bone to neatly sever a critical vessel. He scarcely felt each blow. All he perceived in the moments before consciousness left him was the flawlessly precise rhythm of their attack.

The attack took only a few seconds, and when it was finished Professor Taggart lay dead on the ground, his blood seeping into the soil from a half-dozen fatal wounds. Most of the researchers were in a state of numb shock, most of all Professor Cole who was quietly blaming himself for the death of the great anthropologist. The exception was Professor Schell, who studied the corpse with the same clinical detachment he normally reserved for the dissection of insects. He crouched next to the body to whisper his final statement:

“Sorry, Professor. But you of all people know that progress can be cruel.”

About the Author

Andrew Johnson is a trans-Pacific teacher currently based out of China’s Anhui Province. He has published works in Nature: Futures, the Arcanist and Straylight Online.

WALKING BACK

SHAUN KILGORE

THE MORNING AIR HELD the first chill of autumn and the dew hung heavily on the tall grass so that it soaked through the stranger’s blue jeans. His long, dangling coat rustled against the grainy tips of the knee-high growth. He passed quietly through untended pastures, ghosting between the scattered herds of cows lazily chewing their cuds. The sun was hidden behind a distant stand of leafy trees still sporting their summer green, but the light was swelling across the empty place.

The stranger paused and adjusted the straps on his backpack where they dug into his shoulders. He drank from the worn canteen he kept clipped to his belt loop, accepting tepid warmth of the water but longing for something as simple as ice cubes. Instead of resuming his walk, the stranger stood very still and listened. So quiet. Not a sound but the occasional moan of a cow or a twittering of birdsong. Craning his neck up he stared at the blue sky. There was a smattering of wispy clouds but nothing else he could see. No linear trails of smoke marked the skies where the airplanes once flew. No distant echo of jet engines rumbling like thunder. The stranger’s shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply. Loss and regret and an aching sadness threatened him again. He continued walking.

The pasturelands vanished behind the stranger and he entered a more rugged place where hills rose like deep cuts in the earth. The stranger spied the rusted barbwire hidden in the grass just before becoming entangled in it. Nearby, there were sun-bleached posts nestled among the dandelions and wild flowers. He carefully stepped over the ruined fence and hiked up into the shade of trees that covered the closest hill.

The ground was damp underfoot. The stranger walked carefully as he ascended into the thicker trees so he wouldn’t get mired in patches of mud. His boots were waterproof but he wasn’t keen on scrubbing the filth off the worn leather. He topped the rise and picked his way among the brush and branches that packed every inch of the forest. Here and there, the stranger spied old plastic bottles and other trash around the remains of old fires. Nothing looked recent.

The stranger shifted the pack on his back when he had to climb over a fallen tree that bulged up and blocked the thin trail he followed. The birds were chirping in earnest as though they weren’t quite used to people blundering about the woods among them. The stranger gave a weak smile and recalled how seldom he been out of the city in years past. Life had been so different then. The world had gone through an awful set of changes. The stranger had abandoned his life when it was clear enough that the things weren’t going back to anything resembling normal.

Near the end lots of people flocked to the cities just so they could survive. Economic collapse. Food shortages. Energy shortages. Civil unrest. All such things that work to tear apart a society. There was nothing that could be done. People finally admitted to themselves that they were at fault. The bill had come due on unsustainable ideologies and belief systems. The limits to growth in an economy that required continuous growth to exist had been reached. Those who could have provided answers to the problems or provided new ways to get by in the real world failed to act in any meaningful way.

Little by little confidence in things had been eroded. More and more people were pushed out of the dreamland and left to face cold, harsh reality. The stranger had been one of the lucky ones. He’d opted out earlier and downscaled his life in stages. The work wasn’t easy though. Friends were lost, relationships ended, and many colleagues called him a fool. The taunts and abusive words stayed with him even after some of the people came to him in desperation as the grimmer facts came to light and the country shifted beneath everyone’s feet.

The stranger passed through the thicker stands of trees and found the going easier as the undergrowth thinned out. There were signs of management. The stranger caught sight of ax marks on some fallen logs. He slowed his walking and let his gaze rove about the clear place. The trees soared up around him, creating a natural canopy. Sun light dotted the ground, but it was still dim beneath the boughs. Squirrels scoured the ground for food and the birds trilled above him. No people sounds though.

He stopped and drank more water. The day was getting warmer. He considered stopping for a longer rest. He’d walked since just after dawn, only pausing for a few minutes here and to eat a bite or relieve himself. The stranger felt compelled to make the best time possible despite choosing a cross-country route. The highways, though mostly vacant of traffic, were far more direct. They could also be dangerous, the stranger mused. He had heard more than a few stories about self-styled highwaymen, committing robbery or worse. He had chosen a far more obscure route.

The stranger whistled an old metal song to himself. He could remember the reverberations of the power chords; the guitar solos that echoed to the heavens as it all came pouring out of tall amplifier stacks. He hadn’t heard an electric guitar in years. Occasionally, the stranger had come upon folks traveling the countryside often carrying battered old acoustic guitars. While he took shelter with them, those that were able, played some of the old songs from memory. There weren’t many iPods or cds in use since stable eclectic power was so hard to come by.

He’d never really connected with any of the fellow travelers that roamed what was left of the United States of America. But the stranger knew that the same longings and difficult to define discontent held sway over so many in the wake of societal collapse. His path remained mostly solitary. That worked well most of the time but he’d gotten into a few scrapes here and there that could have ended far worse. The stranger tried not to reflect on such outcomes and took it as a personal favor from the Universe that he had managed to come out alive and in one piece.

He’d kept a leisurely pace for the most part. There were enough risks in the world without adding a little old-fashioned impatience. Slowing down was something the stranger still struggled with in an age without high-speed travel readily available. One benefit was that he was in the best shape of his life. The stranger had lost upwards of twenty pounds just keeping physically active all day and adding a lot of miles of walking in the mix.

He squatted in the grass then just plopped down. A light breeze rustled the leaves. The stranger just listened to the sounds swirling around him. Animals added their voices. All were natural sounds that were long muffled by mankind’s collective noise. A deep sigh escaped his throat taking pent up tension with it.

A twig snapped.

The stranger leaped to his feet and spun about wildly. His muscles were taut and he was ready to run. A stillness came over the forest. The animals quieted their voices and rustling. His heart thundered in his head, making it hard to hear. The breeze played with the leaves and the brush around him. The stranger stood in place, waiting, watching, and ready. He worked his jaw licking his dried lips.

“Hello,” he said hoarsely. He’d not spoken aloud for some time and the sound was jarring.

There was no response at first. The woods around him remained eerily calm like all the natural sounds and stirrings were muffled.

“Hello,” he repeated more firmly. “Is anybody there?”

More sounds erupted out of the quiet woods. Twigs snapping in quick succession and dried leaves being brushed past. The stranger pulled a knife from where it hung on his belt. The disturbance got louder as something or someone came closer to where he stood. He scanned the periphery of the little clearing and prepared to fight.

Off to his left, small tree shook. Then a dark-haired man wearing a camouflage pants and shirt stepped out. He was carrying a rifle in one hand and held a dead rabbit by the feet in the other.

“Take it easy. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just out hunting.” The man’s bushy beard split in a careful smile. He squinted and the smile was replaced by something else. “Jack, is that you?”

The stranger felt his stomach drop.

“Jack, it’s me, Martin. Martin Henshaw. Damn man, how did you find your way up here?”

The stranger frowned and looked closer at the man. “Martin?”

“Yeah, it’s me buddy. I haven’t seen you for what? Maybe twelve years. Probably since the funeral. Jack, I can’t believe it. Did you walk all the way back?”

The stranger, now called Jack, dropped his knife down. The breath he’d been holding whistled out. “Yeah, Martin. All the way from the city.”

“God, man, that’s like a hundred miles or better.”

“More like a hundred and seventy, if I remember right.”

Martin approached. He propped the rifle against a tree and held out a hand. “Welcome home, man.” He shook his head. “Wait till the others know you’re here.”

Jack took Martin’s hand. He smiled. “Thanks.” A thought occurred to him. “Martin, uh, is my...uh, dad still around?”

Martin nodded. “Yep, your dad’s a stubborn old coot.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Come on. We’re a few miles out from town.”

“Really,” said Jack.

“Yeah, don’t you recognize this place? It’s Mummer’s Hill. We used to play here as kids.”

Jack looked around him again. As though seeing it for the first time. There were some familiar trees and the clearing itself had a certain shape that had remained the same. He couldn’t believe he’d missed the signs.

Martin took up his gun beckoned Jack. “Come on. Let’s get a move on. You’ll be in time for dinner. The whole town has a potluck every Saturday. It’s become a big thing since...since, well, since things changed.”

Jack nodded. “Right.”

Martin led Jack along a deer trail that wound down Mummer’s Hill and into the valley. They emerged from the woods and stepped out into a fallow field. Jack saw the tops of the houses, the metal hulk of the town water tower. Chimney smoke rose in lazy eddies from many places. Martin went at an easy stroll, but Jack could tell he was used to a much more punishing pace. He was harder and thinner. He carried the rifle like he knew how to use it. Or at least it seemed that way to Jack.

From the field the two men took a worn dirt road that cut between other fields, a few of which were recently tilled. They chatted about people that used to live in the town, those still, around, those that had passed away. It was a sober conversation, but Jack was okay with it. They reached a paved road that still seemed in good shape though he doubted it carried much automobile traffic. The new road led to the center of Millfield.

“It looks the same,” said Jack.

Martin smiled. “Wait till we get closer. You’ll notice some differences.”

Jack nodded and fell silent.

Fifteen minutes passed with the two men absorbed by an easy silence broken only by the regular rhythm of their steps. As they neared the first of the houses, Jack saw a woman hunched over next to a lush tomato plant that was part of a sizeable garden that took up half of the front yard. She glanced up and waved at Martin.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Jansen.”

“And to you, Martin dear. Tell, Ellie to come down and help me get those pies to the park.”

“You bet,” Martin replied.

She went back to work, picking tomatoes.

The two men moved on.

“That was Mrs. Jensen, the sixth grade teacher right?”

“Yep,” said Martin. “She still teaches classes at the elementary school, three times away.”

Jack mused on that as they carried on their walk. They passed other houses. Children were running around chasing each other. The sound of squeals and laughter, affected Jack deeply. All the homes sported gardens in their yards and quite a few had added fruit trees. Windmills had been mounted on some of the old telephone poles. Wires ran down to small buildings. Jack could hear the soft hum of generators.

“You’ve got electricity?”

“Some. We have to use it sparingly. We were able to rig some refrigeration for storing food.”

“That’s good.”

“Comes in handy for winter, that’s for sure,” said Martin.

“Who’d you bring back with you, Marty?”

A woman came up to her picket fence, arms crossed. She wore a simple dress that looked like it was handmade.

“Hey, Beth. Ah, yeah,” Martin stopped and grabbed Jack’s arm. “A prodigal son has returned. It’s Jack Armstrong.”

Beth’s eyes went wild. “My goodness. Is that really you, Jackie?”

Jack smiled widely. “Hi Beth.”

Beth jumped her fence and ran over. She gave Jack a tight hug. “I can’t believe it.” Her words were muffled. “Jackie, we wondered whether you’d try to get out the city.”

“It took some work. Things got pretty bad at the end.”

She stepped back. “Martin, you should take him to the park.”

“I will,” said Martin. “I have to let Ellie know that Mrs. Jensen needs her help.”

“Let me do it,” said Beth. “You take Jackie there. It’s settled.”

Jack watched Beth head off up the street and turn down a side path. He shook his head. “She’s not changed that much.”

Martin chuckled. “Nope. Not much. She’s married to Ben Phelps now though.”

“Ben Phelps, really?”

“Yep. Hard to believe it, but old Ben stepped up when things went to shit a few years back after the economy nosedived and we had some troubles up this way.”

“What kind of trouble,” Jack asked.

Martin shook his head. “Don’t worry about it now man. It’s old news now. Come on.” He tugged on Jack’s sleeve and picked up his pace. The rabbit swung about in his other hand and he readjusted the rifle so it wouldn’t fall.

Jack let Martin drag him toward the Millfield Park. “You’re taking me to see my dad, aren’t you?” Martin didn’t answer, but Jack knew what his friend had in mind.

They passed through the center of town. There were people streaming toward the park, carrying all kinds of fruits, vegetables, desserts, and other dishes. The smells of cooking meat filled the air. Jack picked up the festive atmosphere immediately. He saw familiar faces carrying musical instruments various types and a group of young girls were singing older pop songs by some boy band or another.

Martin took to the grass and stepped over the old rope barriers that marked the outlines of the Millfield Park. The gravel path was already crowded with people heading towards the brick pavilion at the center. Martin exchanged a word here and there with people that crossed their path. Sometimes Jack knew the faces. Martin started introducing him, which slowed them down.

Eventually, they reached the pavilion. Jack saw his father standing in the doorway, bottle in hand, talking animatedly. He wore one of the same patched, flannel shirts he had been wearing for as long as Jack could remember. His hair had larger patches of gray mixed with the black hair. His face was rougher and sun-darkened. His deep laugher split through the other voices milling around the brick building.

His father glanced as they approached. He did a double take. His mouth opened and closed. The other person he was talking to took in the scene and stepped back inside. Jack stopped a few steps behind Martin.

“Mr. Armstrong,” said Martin.

John Armstrong nodded slowly, his eyes never quite leaving Jack. “Hello Martin.”

“I brought a rabbit for stew. I found something else while I was out hunting.” He pointed at Jack.

“Yes. I can see that.” Jack’s father took a step down.

Jack felt his throat tighten and his stomach did a few flips. “Uh, hi dad. It’s me, Jack.” His voice broke and tears gathered in his eyes.

He saw the expression mirrored in his father’s face. “Son,” he said softly. “My boy.” His father moved to him and grabbed him in a fierce hug.

Jack grabbed his father back. Sobs bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t let go. He struggled to speak, finally saying, “I made it home, dad.”

John Armstrong pulled away, still holding Jack’s shoulders. He looked around at the circle of onlookers who had gathered about them. “Everyone. Listen. My son, Jack’s come back to me. He’s come home!” The man was crying unabashedly. The people of Millfield started cheering. Martin whistled and whooped.

The party began in earnest. Jack, a stranger no more, was back among people who gave a damn about one another. A community. A family. Whatever the future held, he knew he was in a place where they would tackle the challenges together.

About the Author

Shaun Kilgore is the author of various works of fantasy, science fiction, and a number of nonfiction works. He has also published numerous short stories and collection. His books appear in both print and ebook editions. Shaun is the publisher and editor of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. He lives in eastern Illinois.

SPECIAL THANKS

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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

MYTHIC

A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine

ISSUE # 7 SUMMER 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Founders House Publishing LLC

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

All Contents are copyrighted to their respective authors

and used here with their permission.

Cover art copyright © Innovari/Dreamstime.com

Published by Founders House Publishing LLC

MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine

is a project and publication of Founders House Publishing LLC.

www.mythicmag.com

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This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional,

and any semblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts

thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.