Analog Science Fiction and Fact

Kindle Edition, 2016 © Penny Publications

The Proving Ground

Alec Nevala-Lee | 17370 words

Perhaps... a message comes to the birds in autumn, like a warning. Winter is coming. Many of them will perish. And like people who, apprehensive of death before their time, drive themselves to work or folly, the birds do likewise; tomorrow we shall die.

—Daphne du Maurier,

“The Birds”

I.

Haley Kabua was clinging to the top of a wind tower when she saw the first bird. She had clipped her lanyard, which was attached by a strap to the back of her safety harness, to a strut on the lattice directly beneath the huge fiberglass rotors. As she braced her bare feet on the scaffold, thirty precarious meters above the beach, she knew without looking that the men on the sand below had halted to watch her climb. Only a few hours of daylight remained, but she forced herself not to hurry, knowing that any mistake she made might be her last.

A pair of thick slings had been hitched to separate legs of the tower, about a third of the way down from the top. Each one ran to the closed hook on the boom of the crane behind her, which had raised the tower into place earlier that afternoon. Both of the chokers had to be released by hand. Reaching up, she unhooked the nearest shackle, letting the loosened sling hang down, and she was about to work her way around to the other when she realized that she was not alone.

Haley tilted back her construction worker’s hat to get a better look at the bird, which was perched on the tail of the turbine. It was a tern, about the length of her forearm, with spotless white plumage and a black eye encircled by a ring of dark feathers that made it seem larger. At the moment, it was clinging to the fin of the tail section with its small blue feet, and it seemed to be staring directly at her, as if it had flown up to investigate this unexpected incursion.

She glanced around. Along the eastern end of the island, six other wind towers were spaced about a hundred meters apart, their new blades shining. A seventh tower lay on the sand, where the workers had just finished bolting its sections together. There were no other birds in sight. Haley was perfectly aware that no terns had nested on Enyu in years, and the wind tower was well above the height at which they preferred to fly. And yet here it was.

Haley waved at it. “Hey, get lost. You don’t want to be around when this starts up.”

The bird tilted its head to one side. Haley returned her attention to the remaining choker on the scaffold. “Guess you like to live dangerously. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She inched around to the second sling, the retractable strap on her harness automatically unspooling. Now she was facing toward the atoll, which formed a horseshoe thirty kilometers across, around the central lagoon. From where she stood at the southeast, she could see the full line of the reef, walkable when the tide was low, that stretched to the islet to the north, along with the seastead taking shape five hundred meters to its leeward side.

Haley paused to drink it all in. The atoll provided few natural vantage points, with its highest elevation only ten meters above low tide, so she rarely had a chance to study the entire structure at once. Seeing it now, from as high above the islet as she would ever be, she felt the sight cut through her exhaustion. It was easy to grow obsessed by details while overlooking the larger picture, she thought, and it was that kind of blindness that had led them to this crisis in the first place.

The seastead had not been designed for beauty, but it was beautiful nonetheless, with the kind of elegance that emerged as a logical conclusion of functionality and constraint. It consisted of a modular network of caissons floating on the surface of the water, with each concrete platform measuring fifty meters to a side. The colony had been designed to expand gradually. One day, there would be more, but now there were only five, a quincunx of four squares joined by a grid of covered walkways and flexible connections to the central hub.

Each platform ascended in a series of smaller terraces, stepped like a ziggurat, with the highest level of the hub rising twenty meters above the lagoon. Their roofs had a tessellated look, with photovoltaic panels alternating with surfaces for catching rain. Half of the caisson facing her was devoted to a hydroponic greenhouse, with a floating dock on the adjacent platform, and the water on the sheltered side was covered in a grid of fish pens and bioreactors that reminded her of rows of a green quilt that had been flung across the sea.

It was a work in progress, and it always looked to her as if someone had left an unfinished mosaic on the face of the ocean, spare tesserae and all. Haley, who had spent most of the last three years on the atoll trying to solve problems at sea level, was struck by how fragile it seemed from above, and as she gazed at the scattered human figures visible below, she felt shaken back into action. They had only four working hours left, and there was still one more turbine to go.

Haley was reaching for the second choker when something struck the top of her hat. At first, she thought that a piece of the turbine had come loose, but when she looked up, all she saw was that the bird that had been perching on the tail section was no longer there.

She heard the sound of wings. In the corner of her eye, there was a flash of white, and then the tern was beating against the back of her neck. She pivoted around, releasing one hand from the scaffold, and tried to bat it away. Instead, she felt a series of sharp pecks as it attacked her shoulders and arms, its feet scrabbling for purchase on the front of her shirt.

The bird drew blood again and went for her eyes. As she attempted to duck out of its path, her foot slipped. She grabbed for the strut above her head and missed. An instant later, she was toppling back, the impossibly blue sky above the rotors filling her field of vision, and all other thoughts vanished, replaced by the logic of gravity. She tried to correct herself, failed, and fell.

Her lanyard caught her. With a jerk, the strap grew taut, the harness seizing her painfully around the armpits as she smacked against the side of the tower. Her hat came off her head. For an instant, the clip was only thing holding her in place, and as she heard the metal straining, vividly picturing what would happen if it broke, her hand groped back of its own accord and closed around one of the struts.

Haley found a toehold, dimly aware of the shouts coming from below. Ignoring them, she regained her footing, her heart juddering, and saw the tern fly off toward the water. Blood was trickling down her arms from five or six shallow cuts where the bird had broken the skin.

Someone was calling to her. It was Giff, one of the other colonists, his hands cupped around his mouth. “You okay?”

She dared a look down. The men had gathered at the foot of the tower, their dark faces craning upward. As her pulse slowed, she saw two unfamiliar figures standing nearby. They were visitors, members of the research team that had been surveying the atoll from offshore for most of the last three months, and her fear gave way to a sudden irritation that they had witnessed her moment of weakness. She found her voice. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

Haley took another second to collect herself, then turned slowly around until she was facing the tower again. Extending a hand, she undid the final choker, allowing the hoisting line on the crane to hang free. She checked herself to see if she was ready to come down in a dignified fashion, and she found that she was. Then she descended, hand over hand, securing her lanyards alternately as she went. The bird that had attacked her was nowhere in sight.

A second later, she was on the sand. As she unclipped the safety strap, Giff came up with her hat. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“It was nothing.” Haley plucked the hat from his outstretched hand. Giff was in his early twenties, a full decade younger than she was, and although they had been working together on this project for many weeks, she had begun to sense only recently that his interest in her was more than strictly professional. She forced herself to speak sharply. “We don’t have to stop. I’ll just be a second. Get over to the last tower, and I’ll meet you there.”

Giff looked as if he wanted to say something more, but in the end, he only left along with the others, who had briefly paused to watch as she came down. Haley made sure that they were all on their way, then pulled off her harness, letting it fall to the ground by the tower.

It was a hundred paces to the shore. Haley knelt in the surf to rinse her cuts, the salt stinging, and was about to head back when she heard a voice with a Dutch accent. “You should probably use this.”

Haley turned just in time to catch the nylon pouch of a medical kit. The man who had tossed it was standing a few steps away. It was one of the two visitors who had come over to observe, and when he smiled, the look that he gave her was almost shy. “In case of infection, you know.”

“Thanks,” Haley said. She brought the kit over to the shaded part of the beach where the crew had left its gear. The man followed without speaking, keeping at arm’s length at all times. He was about her age, tall and bearded, with light blue eyes and a hint of sunburn. His companion, a woman in her late forties, maintained her distance, standing at the point where the sand gave way to scrub.

Haley sat down, grateful to see that the visitor did not seem inclined to volunteer further assistance. As she opened the kit, he motioned toward the spot beside her. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.” She tore open an antiseptic swab with her teeth. “You must be Visser. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard them call you.”

“I’m sure they have other names for me,” Visser said. “My friends call me Stefan. You must be Haley Kabua. I’m surprised it’s taken us this long to meet. My colleagues and I have heard a lot about you.” He nodded at the tower. “You ever have problems with birds before?”

Haley wound a length of gauze around her arm. His full name struck her as familiar, but she wasn’t sure from where. “Not really. The terns don’t nest here. That’s why we chose it for the wind farm.”

“I can see why.” Visser sat on the sand. “What do you think happened up there?”

She taped a dressing in place. “Maybe they don’t like us nosing in their business.”

Haley watched for his reaction. She sensed a spark of attraction here, although she was hardly at her best, her hair sweaty and matted, her jeans cut off below the knees. As for Visser, she recognized the type from the tourists who had come out to the atoll in the years before the dive operation shut down. Everything about him spoke of healthy swims, morning runs, and exercise instead of real labor. She returned the kit. “I have to get back to work. If you’re not too busy, you can come.”

She saw that the offer surprised him, and she wondered if he understood it. All that anyone knew about his research team was that it was connected in some undefined way to the Deventer Group, the corporation that was helping to finance the seastead, and she had learned a long time ago that if you didn’t know what someone else was doing, it was best to keep them close until you did. Visser glanced at his colleague. “Let me talk to Jansen.”

Haley waited as he went over to his companion, who had been visibly sizing her up. Jansen cut a more interesting figure than Visser, with the look of a woman who had spent much of her life outdoors, her blond hair bleached nearly white. After they had conferred, Visser approached again. “You have me for two hours. Our boat is by Romurikku. We’ll take the dinghy back when we’re done.”

Looking over at Jansen, Haley saw that she was studying the turbines, marking something down on a folded map. She indicated the workers. “You can pitch in. Hope you’re good with your hands.”

They headed together for the last tower, which lay on the coral sand near the airstrip a hundred meters away. As she drew closer, Haley saw that the men were connecting the guy cables and unrolling them along the ground. Behind them, a diesel engine roared to life, and the construction crane began to crawl slowly along the beach. It was a chain-driven relic without a cab, leaving the driver exposed on a swivel seat. Visser whistled. “That’s quite the antique.”

“It’s tougher than it looks,” Haley said. “There’s a lot of stuff in the supply outbuildings. Trucks, milling machines, backhoes, forklifts. Most of it isn’t usable. The salt water wastes the steel. But we were able to refit some of it. This is a shoestring operation, so it came in handy. We have to make do with what we have. When I first got here, it was a real mess.”

Visser appeared to latch onto this last detail. “You weren’t born on the islands?”

“Springdale, Arkansas. Ever been there?” When he shook his head, she gestured for him to follow. “You aren’t missing much. A lot of Marshallese live there. My parents worked at the poultry plant. Here, help me with this.”

Haley showed him the armored electrical cable. Visser took up position beside her as she fed it through the center of the lattices, pacing down the length of the tower. “What brought you all the way out here?”

“I didn’t feel like killing chickens,” Haley said. “At least with wind turbines, you get to slaughter the birds one at a time.”

Visser cracked a smile. As she hooked the cable to the disconnect switch at the tower’s base, he assisted as necessary, listening to her instructions and coming forward only when asked. Haley had positioned herself to keep an eye on Jansen, who was taking photographs of the row of turbines. “Your friend can come over if she likes. She seems interested.”

“We’re doing a survey of the atoll. Infrastructure plays a big role, especially this close to the reef.” Visser watched as the crane inched into place. “I wanted to ask about that. These wind towers weren’t part of the original proposal. Someone took money out of the budget to pay for them. Why put them up at all?”

Haley noticed that Giff was doing a bad job of pretending not to eavesdrop. “Are you asking for yourself, or as an employee of Deventer?”

“I’m not an employee. Deventer pays me as a consultant. It’s just us two talking.”

Looking at his handsome, privileged face, Haley saw that he had no idea of what she had sacrificed to get the towers or what they really represented. “We need power. Wind happens to be a good way to generate it.”

“But the islanders did fine without wind power before. Even over on Majuro.”

“I know. It’s silly, right?” Haley watched as the crane eased itself into line with the concrete base on which the tower would be fixed. “We could just run everything on generators. Ship in the diesel. It’s not like we don’t have the money. That’s why we’re here in the first place. It qualifies us for reparations. A trust fund. They could probably spare some of it to keep the lights on.” She continued to study the crane. “I’ve told you where I’m from. What about you?”

“You probably haven’t heard of it,” Visser said. “A charming city called Leiden.”

“That’s where Rembrandt was born, isn’t it?” Haley deflected his curious look. “You have dikes there?”

Visser seemed to sense where she was going with this. “Of course. Otherwise—” “—the sea would swallow you up,” Haley finished. “But why not just pack it in? Pull up stakes and join the Germans. It would be easier.”

Visser silently acknowledged her point. Haley turned back to the tower. “Well, that’s my answer, too. You care about your independence. So do we. I didn’t come here for a handout. Relying on the outside is the kind of thinking that got us into this predicament. You, me, and everyone.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Visser said. “Whoever arranged to put up these towers must have wanted to make a statement.”

“You may be onto something there.” Haley turned away. “The towers were my idea.”

Leaving him on that line, she went to the crane, which had parked itself downwind from the tower. Visser watched as the work crew cinched a strap a third of the way down the scaffold, then lifted one end until it was the height of a man’s chest. As the workers brought timbers to prop it up, Haley signaled to Visser. “You can give them a hand, if you like.”

Visser pitched in as they raised the top of the tower, then stood back as the crane was unhooked and rigged to the powerhead. They hoisted it up, the men guiding it into position and bolting it into place. Haley had wanted to show Visser how professional they were, and she was gratified by how efficient the process had become, with most of the work carried out without speaking.

Once the electrical connections had been made, she waited as the men mounted the fiberglass blades one at a time. When they were finished, she waved at the driver of the crane, a younger colonist named Amata. “Ready?”

Amata grinned. As the crane engaged, lifting the tower upright, the men took up places on all sides, using the guy wires as tethers as they maneuvered it to the base pad. Haley ended up standing next to Giff. Grasping the base section to align it with the pier, Giff shot a look at Visser, who was watching from a safe distance, and spoke in Marshallese. “What did he want?”

Haley detected a hint of jealousy. She held the legs of the tower as the crane lowered it onto its pin. “You know the type. He can’t believe we can do anything on our own. So keep your mind on your work.”

Giff only turned back to the scaffold. As soon as it was in place, the workers ran the guy lines to turnbuckles that had been anchored deep in the sand. Haley locked each one with clips as the men pulled the wires taut. Using a rusted transit level on a tripod, Giff checked to make sure that the tower was as close to vertical as possible, signaling to the others to tighten or loosen the guys accordingly. When they were done, all that remained was for someone to climb the scaffold and release the rigging. Haley saw the others looking at her. “I’ll do it.”

Haley put on the safety harness. For a second, she paused at the base of the tower, aware that the men were watching, and then she reached up to clip a lanyard onto the first strut.

She climbed carefully, as always, going up one rung at a time. Whenever she reached the lanyard, she unclipped it and attached a second one higher up, so that she always had at least one line in place. It was very quiet, with no sign of birds, and the solitude gave her time to think.

As she ascended the tower, she thought back to what Visser had said, along with the assumptions behind it. None of this, he had implied, was necessary. The seastead didn’t need wind power or fish farms. All it needed was a handful of caretakers, far fewer than the hundred colonists who currently resided here. The islanders had relied on imports for their food and fuel for years. And if the reparations paid off as they all hoped they would, there would be plenty of money.

Yet she wanted to give them more. They had a chance to make something here that could sustain itself, and while it might not matter to the rest of the world, it mattered a hell of a lot to her. She knew that this sense of urgency had alienated her from many of those around her, even the ones most inclined to take her seriously. But she could never shake the feeling that they were running out of time.

She made it to the level of the tower where the sling was attached. Clipping her lanyard to the strut above her head, she looked around. She did not see any birds on the islet, although a mingled flock of terns and noddies was feeding offshore, a kilometer away from the reef.

Haley took in the view again, the wind blowing in her hair, knowing that it would be for the last time in a while. Looking past the seastead at the open ocean, she forced herself to see how it would look in a hundred years. Water levels across the globe were projected to rise one full meter by the end of the century, but it would not be evenly distributed. It would be highest here, in the equatorial Pacific, and it would erase whatever was left of the Marshall Islands.

But not entirely. The atoll had an average elevation of two meters, and the estimated increase in sea level meant that the high tide would sweep over the few spots of land that survived. If they wanted to remain a country, at least in the eyes of the courts that would award reparations from developed nations to regions destroyed by climate change, they had to make some new real estate of their own. Seen in the right light, it was almost comical. A country could be compensated for the loss of its territory, but without any land, it would not be considered a country.

Hence the artificial island. Turning back to the seastead, Haley reminded herself that it was only a beginning. They had a few decades to set up wave turbines, to make the bases of the wind towers watertight, to build up fish farms and bioreactors until they could live here indefinitely on their own, no matter what happened elsewhere. It had all been born of trial and error, and they had made big mistakes already. But as she looked out at the lagoon, reflecting on what else lay sunk below its surface, she knew that she could not trust anyone except for herself.

Haley detached the chokers without any trouble and climbed down again. Looking around at the others, she knew that the rest could wait until tomorrow, or even later. But when she saw that Jansen had joined them to observe, standing silently alongside Visser, she found that she wanted to do it when the visitors would see it. “Let’s turn them on now.”

There was a murmur of excitement. As the workers grounded the last tower, driving the copper rods deep into the ground, Haley went to the shed that had been erected at the center of the wind farm. The inverters were already in place, and once the system checks were done, she gave the order to proceed.

Giff ran down the beach, darting from one tower to another to turn on the switches, as a second worker did the same with the turbines on the other end. Haley kept her eye on the bank of inverters. As the rotors high above began to turn, the screens blinked to life one by one.

A cheer went up from the work crew. As the men slapped one another’s backs, Haley continued to watch the towers. When they caught the trade winds, the displays on the inverters began to update rapidly as the output wattage increased. She allowed herself a flicker of pride, and when she looked at Visser, she saw that he got the message. They had done all this themselves. Deventer might have provided some of the resources, in exchange for a showpiece project and a percentage of the reparations to come, but it had played no part where it counted.

An instant later, Visser’s expression darkened. Turning to follow his eyes, Haley saw a single white tern circling far overhead.

She did not know if it was the same one she had seen before. All she knew was that it was heading directly toward one of the turbines, and before she could react, it had flown straight into the rotors.

Haley heard a thud as the bird collided with a blade. She watched, unbelieving, as it fell to the ground in a tight spiral, like a maple seed, and struck the sand at the base of the tower.

She ran to it, vaguely aware of Visser at her side, and looked down at its broken body. It had died at once. Haley was still staring at it, feeling as if she were dreaming, when she heard more shouts.

Looking up, she saw a flock of at least thirty birds coming their way. They were flying unusually high, at the level of the turbines, and they were moving in a line that would bring them directly into the path of the towers.

Haley watched, rooted to the spot, as the flock hit the wind farm. It missed the first turbine entirely, but when it reached the second, there was another series of thumps as more terns hit the rotors. If it hadn’t been so awful, she would have laughed. As the bodies of the dead birds plummeted, the rest flew on, and before she could say a word, they had flown along the entire line. At every turbine, more terns fell. A few survivors made it to the end, but within seconds, she had lost sight of them in the trees at the heart of the islet.

“Turn it off,” Haley said. Giff sprinted away without being asked twice, hitting the disconnect switch at the nearest tower before racing along to the next. The others joined him, leaving her alone with Visser. Haley watched as the rotor slowed to a stop overhead, its blades speckled with fresh blood. Then she turned to the north, looking along the row of towers as each one came to a halt, stretching from where she stood to the reef that led to Bikini.

II.

“Let me see if I understand,” Ruben DeBrum said. “The birds were flying far above their customary altitude. They hit the first turbine and kept going. And they flew in a line that took them across the whole wind farm. As if they were doing it deliberately. Or as if they were being drawn to it.”

Haley reminded herself to remain calm. “It’s too soon to jump to conclusions. Birds can be attracted to wind towers as a place to perch or scan for prey, but that doesn’t seem to be the case here. Bugs can swarm around turbines, which draws birds that eat insects, but that doesn’t include terns. And I’ve found studies of how electromagnetic or auditory fields generated by wind power can attract bats. But not birds. At least not that I’ve seen so far.”

Ruben shifted in his chair. It was early the following morning. The councilman for the Bikini district had the girth and the easy grin of a born politician, but he was not smiling now. He had played no role in the construction of the seastead, living back on Majuro with what remained of the government of the Marshall Islands, and he had moved here only a few months ago, once it had become clear that the colonists were serious. “In other words, we have no idea. I’m sorry to say it, but we have to halt the project until we can evaluate the situation. Or find a more qualified expert.”

Haley bit back what she wanted to say. They were seated in the common area on the uppermost level of the central caisson, along with twenty other colonists. Haley had asked for the meeting to be public, hoping that it would work in her favor, but when she looked at the crowd, it struck her as a mixed bag. Some of the men and women here believed in everything that the seastead represented, but others had wound up at the colony because they had nowhere else to go, and she did not think that she could count on their support.

The common room stood twenty meters above the base of the platform, high enough to be safe from the largest of rogue waves. On Sundays, it doubled as a chapel, with its windows of safety glass affording a pleasant view of the atoll. It had been one of the first areas to be furnished, in part with an eye on renting the space to wealthy vacationers, and the result had the look of an anonymous resort lounge. She saw that the councilman was waiting for her response. “We checked the turbines. There’s no damage. If anything, I’m more concerned about the birds.”

“So are we.” Ruben glanced at Visser. “Deventer is sensitive to perceptions of environmental impact. If we’re killing birds here, it looks bad. This is all starting to look like a mistake. We rushed to build the towers too quickly.”

Haley saw that he was showing off for the two visitors, who had taken up position at the rear of the room. Going forward, she unrolled a map on the conference table, holding its edges down with the shells that had been left there as a centerpiece. Across from her hung a traditional stick chart, with coconut fibers knotted together to represent ocean well patterns. On the opposite wall, where Visser and Jansen were standing, there was a framed artist’s rendition of the finished seastead, a dream on paper with no sense of the work required to make it a reality.

She pointed to the map. “These are the nesting grounds. There are big bird rookeries on the uninhabited islets to the north and southeast. You see thousands of terns and noddies there, along with herons and frigatebirds. But there aren’t any birds on Bikini or Enyu. They’ve steered clear ever since the islets were built up for the nuclear tests in the fifties. Even after the people left, the cats and the rats stayed behind. And we checked the nesting sites and flight patterns before we began to build. There are fewer birds here than anywhere else on the atoll.”

“But you haven’t checked again recently. Birds can move, I imagine. A colony might have arisen since you last surveyed it. Or maybe you overlooked it the first time around.” Ruben leaned back in his seat. “But it might be for the best. A wind farm could be put to better use elsewhere, like Majuro. They still have a population of fifty thousand. I’m not alone in thinking that wind power might be more valuable there, rather than for a handful of colonists. Doesn’t that seem reasonable?”

“Yes. All too reasonable.” Haley removed the shells from the map, which sprang shut. “I’d like to survey the island one more time before we come to a decision. Giff and I can cover most of it in a day, and I’ve already asked for a drone to do a flyover. If there’s a nesting ground, we can evaluate our options. We could always move the towers to Bikini. The equipment is already here. I just want to find a solution that makes sense for us and the birds.”

“The birds will be gone in a hundred years, no matter what we do,” Ruben said mildly. “We won’t. If we’re lucky.”

Haley glanced around and saw that the meeting was over. Rolling up her map, she made her way to the door, not looking at Visser or Jansen, and headed stonily outside before anyone else could speak. When Giff caught up with her in the corridor, she told him to meet her at the boat in twenty minutes. She waited until he had left, wanting to be alone, and then moved on.

After emerging into the sunshine of the terrace, she descended the open stairs to the lowest level of the caisson. As always, it felt exactly like walking on land, although the platform was floating on the surface, tethered to the bed of the lagoon at twelve separate anchor points.

Haley often found herself thinking of the early days, when the first set of platforms was assembled on Bikini. The initial crew had consisted of only twelve volunteers, residing in the decaying resort rooms on the beach, along with a supervisor from the Deventer Group. The interlocking slabs that made up the caissons, with their alternating layers of concrete and polystyrene, were based on the company’s patents, and early on, it had been assumed that Deventer would also oversee the construction. In fact, the islanders had been determined to do everything on their own, and before long, the company man had been safely back on a plane to the Netherlands.

There was no question that they had made mistakes. They had tried mixing their own concrete with local coral sand, only to find that it was too coarse for binding, and setting up the molding plant for the polystyrene had taken months. Once finished, the slabs had to be slid into the water, fitted together, and towed into position, and several had been damaged or lost in the process. But the result was a growing seastead that could survive a hurricane or rise with the worst of the waves, even if the real threat, as Haley had come to understand, lay in the human factor.

She moved along the encircling walkway and headed for a covered bridge that led to an outer platform. Going to her quarters, which were bare except for a bed, a laptop, and a shelf of books, she retrieved the equipment she needed. Then she continued on to the next caisson, moving counterclockwise around the seastead until she reached the greenhouse.

Manita Jacklick was checking the hydroponic tanks in which the colonists were learning to grow cucumbers, chives, and watercress. As Haley entered, Manita glanced up. “How did it go?”

“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Haley said. “Ruben sawed me off at the knees.”

“He needs you more than you’ll ever need him.” Manita set down her tablet. The biologist was another transplant from the outside world, training the colonists to establish pilot systems for hydroponics, aquaculture, and bioreactors. Like the wind turbines, they were less a matter of practical necessity than part of a larger vision, a strategy for the seastead to sustain itself with greater independence than the islanders here had known in decades. “Let’s take a walk.”

Haley followed her outside. She had often sensed that Manita was driven as much by aesthetic concerns as by more pragmatic considerations. The bioreactors had been designed to grow spirulina and other algae for food and biodiesel, but they had also a peculiar beauty, the plastic membranes of wastewater floating on the water like a line of pearls, lined on the inside with bluish paste. Even the pens of seaweed, shellfish, and tilapia, crossbred for resistance to ocean acidification, were lovely in their way, and it was this combination of attention to detail and concern for the whole that made Manita such a valuable ally.

As they crossed over to the dock, Haley told her about the meeting. “I can’t go back to Ruben without an explanation. Maybe there’s a lack of food offshore, and the birds are moving inland—”

“That’s not what I’m seeing,” Manita said. “If anything, there are more fish in the water than ever. The birds aren’t starving. But I can take a look after I check the sampling stations. Did you keep any snarge for me?”

“It’s in a fridge in the central galley. Twelve birds in all. I bagged them separately.”

“Hope you labeled them, too. I’d rather not see them get served up for lunch.” They arrived at the floating dock at the edge of the adjoining platform, at which five boats were moored. Giff was there already, waiting for her in the nearest dinghy. As the women approached, he rose, and Haley was about to speak when she saw something pass across his face.

She turned to see Visser coming in her direction. Halting a few steps away, he pointed to a boat with an electric motor berthed at a distance from the rest. “That one’s ours. She’s fast. You can use her. I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. And if it’s not a problem, I’d like to join you.”

Haley studied his expression, which revealed nothing but a genuine desire to help, as well as an assumption that they were united by concerns that the others could not understand. “Why?”

“I’ll be honest,” Visser said. “I want to know what’s happening here, too. We’re surveying the atoll. If the geography is changing, the birds can be the first to sense it. And if they’re resettling for a reason, it matters to me.”

Haley took a moment to respond. She sensed again that there was an unspoken aspect to Visser’s interest in her, and it had nothing to do with her more obvious charms. Last night, she had spent the better part of an hour looking into him online, and what she had found only raised additional questions. Glancing at Giff, she observed that he did not seem particularly happy about the arrangement, but she could think of no good reason to decline. “Come on, then.”

A few minutes later, after transferring their gear to Visser’s boat, they were heading out into the lagoon. Giff had remained silent, and Haley hoped that there wouldn’t be trouble between the men. To head off any further tension, she had volunteered to take the helm herself, and now she was steering away from the seastead, heading south toward Enyu.

Halfway there, she decided to change course, departing from the most direct line to follow a long curve toward the islet. Up ahead, an orange mooring ball bobbed like a bath toy. She had brought them here deliberately, wondering if Visser would make the connection, which he did. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s the Sakawa,” Haley said, speaking loudly above the motor. “It’s right below us.”

Visser leaned over the edge of the cockpit, then raised his eyes toward the islet to the east. In the sky overhead, the drone that she had asked to do a flyover was winging its way toward Enyu. “It’s hard to imagine.”

“You can still see the signs, if you know where to look.” Haley pointed to the south. “They used explosives to blow up a channel in the reef. One of the islands was vaporized by Ivy Mike. If you head west, you can see the crater from Castle Bravo. They called it the proving ground. It was chosen because it was in the middle of nowhere. But there were people here. When they were relocated, they were told that they could come back in a few months. Know what really happened?”

Visser did not look away from Bikini. “I expect that it wasn’t anything good.”

Haley asked Giff to take the helm. Opening her bag, she checked the wildlife transmitters that she had activated before their departure, which she would use to tag any nests they found. “They almost starved at the first relocation site. When radioactive ashes fell from the sky, nobody told them what it was. Finally, they were informed it was safe to go home. A few years later, somebody noticed that cesium levels were off the charts. There were stillbirths, miscarriages. They all had to leave again. So you can see why we don’t trust what other people tell us.”

She anticipated his next question. “The radiation fell to normal levels years ago. They put potassium in the soil, just to be safe. That’s why we built the seastead here. Nobody has lived here for decades, but it’s clean. We can use the infrastructure they left behind, and the atoll is a natural breakwater. It was like a house with the keys in the front door. When we arrived, it was just us and the birds.”

As they drew closer to Enyu, Giff brought the boat around to the construction dock at the lee of the islet, where they tied up. To the south, a flock of shearwaters was feeding on the open ocean, dipping from side to side on their stiff wings as they flew, the tips nearly touching the water. She saw that Visser had noticed it. “Migrants. They stay for a while, then move on. Like everyone else.”

They descended from the dock, walking along the sand toward the trees. Giff inclined his head southward. “I’ll take this end. You two go north. We can meet up again in the middle.”

“Fine.” Haley waited as he headed off, knowing that he had wanted to leave her alone with Visser. Whatever his reasons, she was glad for it. The two of them, she suspected, would have a lot to talk about.

Visser was looking at the wind turbines, which were motionless and bare. “No birds.”

“They can be hard to find. So I could use a second pair of eyes.” Haley knelt to draw on the sand, which was light gray, with flecks of coral. “This is the island. I want to focus on the scrub and forest here, north of the airstrip. We have to be systematic. Terns don’t build nests. The eggs get laid in bare branches, forks in trees, sometimes just depressions on the ground or in the shingle. If there’s a colony, it’s going to be somewhere that isn’t obvious. Let’s go.”

They headed north. Beyond the beach, the ground turned into short grass and soldierbush, followed by a sparse forest of pisonia and manjack. Near the airstrip, coconuts had been planted in neat rows, replacing the trees that had been blown away by the nuclear blasts.

As they picked their way forward over the next hour, focusing on sheltered areas that might reveal signs of birds, Haley realized that she wasn’t sure what she was hoping to find. Visser remained silent. She had been wondering if he would open up about what he was really doing here, but with every passing minute, it became increasingly clear that she would have to pry it out of him herself.

Her first opportunity came as they circled back toward their starting point. They had found nothing, and Haley was trying to decide what to do next when Visser spoke up beside her. “You’ve said that you don’t trust anyone from the outside. But you still cut a deal with Deventer.”

“It wasn’t my deal.” Haley headed toward the airstrip. “But if they want to use us, I’ll use them back. They need a proof of concept. If Deventer wants to build islands for countries that are going to vanish underwater, they have to prove that it works on a large scale. We need land and a permanent presence to stay on the list of nations. So they made us an offer. The details don’t matter. I just want to get the seastead up and running before anyone has second thoughts. That’s why I’m in a hurry. It isn’t about the seas rising. I know how quickly the politics can change.”

They looked toward the ocean, where a mixed flock was feeding on the water, the white terns and black noddies flying low to pick up squid and fish. In the old days, she knew, the islanders had followed birds to find promising fishing grounds, but that way of life was long over. Watching Visser, she saw her chance. “Let me tell you another story. Back in the nineties, the Marshall Islands made a deal with a private company to conduct iron fertilization. You know what that is?”

Visser kept his eye on the flock. “You seed the oceans with iron. The iron supply is the essential limiting factor in plankton growth.”

“Right. The idea was that if you can get more plankton to grow, they suck up carbon dioxide, and when they die, it sinks to the ocean floor. Marine snow. On a large enough scale, it could offset carbon production. We could solve climate change without anyone lifting a finger. If you’re lucky, you get more fish, too. It sounded good to our politicians, so we leased our offshore waters. You can look it up.”

She regarded the birds. “It was supposed to be a trial run, but it never happened. Before they could even start, iron fertilization was outlawed as a form of illegal dumping. But maybe it’s better that way. Science isn’t going to save us. We like to think that we can invent our way out of this. It lets us avoid the hard choices. And I figured out a long time ago that we have to depend on ourselves.”

Glancing toward the airstrip, she saw that Giff had emerged from the coconut grove. When she raised her arms in a silent question, he only shook his head. As they went closer, she lowered her voice. “And I’ll tell you one last story. After the islanders were relocated from Bikini, they were given a trust fund to compensate them for the loss of their land. They had nothing else, so they couldn’t live without those handouts. I don’t want that to happen again. Deventer can have their cut. If we can sign over a piece of our future to make a home for ourselves, we will. I just want to get it done now, because I don’t trust the system. It doesn’t have any interest in what we’re building here. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Visser turned. Something was gathering behind his blue eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You aren’t a scientist,” Haley said. “You’re a lawyer. And I want to know why you really came.”

Before Visser could respond, Giff had joined them at the edge of the airstrip, his face glistening with sweat. He pointed. “Look.”

Following his gesture, Haley felt a sudden chill. When she had last looked at the wind towers, they had stood empty against the sky. Now, at some point in the last few minutes, they had become covered in birds. Clusters of white terns were perching on the struts of the latticework and on the tail sections of the turbines, hundreds, perhaps thousands looking calmly inland, as if they had all descended simply to watch and wait. “Where did they come from?”

Giff shook his head. “Don’t know. I didn’t find anything on my end. A few heron’s nests in the bunker on the southern tip of the island. That’s all. But I haven’t checked anything here.”

Haley knew that he was referring to the supply outbuildings and the communications bunker by the airstrip, which were the only places they had yet to search. As they headed in that direction, with Giff casting a nervous look back at the ranks of terns, she felt Visser’s eyes on her face.

Giff went ahead to the nearest storage building, signaling that she and Visser should check the other. Visser followed as she went to pry open the door, which had been all but swallowed up by undergrowth. Inside, hulks of construction equipment and rusting generators were visible in the shadows. Haley switched on her flashlight, casting its beam around the interior, and heard the low scurrying of rats. “Now you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

Visser faced her in the darkness. “First, I never said I was a scientist. You only assumed that I was. I studied biology and law at Leiden University. But it sounds like you already figured that out.”

“I figured out a few other things,” Haley said. “I looked you up online. Your name sounded familiar, and I finally remembered why. You wrote one of the first papers about us. I read it last night. It was hard to get past the legal language, but I think I got the point. You wanted to define what a country was. For a nation to collect reparations, it has to legally exist, but places affected by climate change might vanish from the map. It’s quite a paradox. But you came up with a good solution.”

Visser’s expression was difficult to read. “I wanted to understand the situation. That doesn’t mean I liked it.”

“No. But you didn’t have any trouble coming up with ways to profit.” Haley retraced her steps to the door. “It isn’t enough to define a nation by its geographical coordinates. You need land and a permanent presence. A few caretakers would be enough, but let’s call it a hundred. A minimum viable population. You can rotate them in and out, as long as somebody is always there. If you like, you can even make the whole thing sustainable. It humors the colonists. Or it allows them to think that they’re something more than a fiction.”

Haley emerged into the sunlight. “I was impressed. That paper was written years ago, but you laid out the whole operation. A government in exile in Springdale. A trusteeship to distribute reparations to refugees. To get startup capital, you treat the reparations like any future income stream. You package it like an annuity and use it to raise money. Deventer agrees to sponsor the construction in exchange for a cut of what we expect to earn from lawsuits against developed countries. It’ll take years to work its way through the courts, but you’re willing to risk it—”

Visser broke in. “The courts are the only tools you have left. I was giving you a way to use them. Both of us want to make a difference. For me, it just happened to be on the legal side.”

“And I should thank you,” Haley replied. “Deventer gave us the patents at a discount. We did the rest. No matter what happens, we’ll have the seastead. They can’t exactly repossess it. And we have an eye on the long game. In a thousand years, sea levels will fall again, and the rest of us can go home. But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

Visser’s voice was flat. “I’m doing exactly what I said. We’re conducting a survey of the atoll, both of its current state and of how it might look over the next century. And this affects you today. Because not everyone is convinced that these islands are going to disappear at all.”

Haley had an uneasy sense of what was coming. “What are you talking about?”

“It isn’t just a question of sea levels,” Visser said patiently, as if explaining a difficult concept to a child. “Reef islands change shape. They move around. Even if they erode on the ocean side, sediment can accumulate where they face the lagoon. If the coral dies, it makes more sand available. These islets might actually grow as the seas rise. Most of them formed when sea levels were even higher. Climate change just reactivates the process. Increased storm action could build them up. We simply don’t know. I’m just here to gather information.”

A flood of anger spread through her body. “If you’re saying we have nothing to worry about, I’ve heard that story before.”

“That’s not what I said. Parts of the islands probably can’t be saved. Urban areas, industrial sites, places where the reefs have been affected by infrastructure, like your turbines. But if it looks like any of it will survive, it makes it harder for a judge to award damages. I’m not saying you won’t lose your country. But people are bound to wonder if the claims will hold up. And this isn’t something you worry about in a century. You worry about it now.”

Haley felt as if she had been struck in the gut. “So there may never be reparations.”

“You have to prepare for that possibility. And if that’s the case, what you have now is all you’re ever going to have.” Visser paused. “I’m sorry. But you knew from the beginning that it might not last, and that you had to be open to other options. I want you to remember this. No matter what else happens.”

For the first time, Haley found herself at a loss for words. Hearing the sound of footsteps, she turned to see Giff coming their way. He shook his head, indicating that he had found nothing, and headed for the concrete communications bunker, which was the only structure that they had not yet inspected. Haley made for it, walking rapidly ahead of the others. She did not want to look at Visser, even as his words continued to resound in her brain.

The bunker, built decades ago for the bomb tests, was a short distance away from the supply buildings, with a huge sloping roof nearly engulfed by the trees. Tufts of grass and moss had sprouted in minute cracks in the concrete. Haley went to the doors, which were ajar, and stepped inside without pausing, wanting nothing more than to be done. She no longer cared about what they might discover.

Going in, she took stock of the interior, which was strewn with debris and the remains of equipment that its former tenants had left behind. As Giff and Visser came up behind her, she switched on her flashlight, and she was moving its beam along the floor when she halted. “Giff—”

In the illuminated circle before her, there was a single heron. It was gray, with short yellow legs, a strip of pure white going down its throat. When it was struck by the light, it turned in her direction, and in the instant before it flew toward the ceiling, it seemed to her that it had almost been dancing in place.

She cast her flashlight up to follow it. Dozens of golden eyes were staring down.

There was a sound like the pages of an enormous book being riffled as the herons in the loft took flight. Haley fell back as the birds descended, coming at them in waves, their wings beating the air in the confined space. Otherwise, they were utterly silent, and within seconds, they had surrounded the three of them, jabbing down with their sharp brown beaks.

Giff cursed and beat away the birds with his hands. Haley felt the flashlight slip from her fingers to the ground, and when it went out, it left nothing but a darkness filled with dense feathered bodies. A heron flung itself at her head. It was like being punched by a fist in a padded glove. The bird came again and she shrieked, reaching up wildly to drive it away, only to feel its claws groping for a foothold. Another blow opened a gash on her cheek.

Beside her, Visser had taken hold of one of the herons as it strained forward, trying to get at his eyes. He managed to fling it away, but its place was immediately taken by two more, one going for his face, the other attacking him below the waist. As she watched, he stumbled and went down hard. Haley broke free of the bird that was flailing against her and reached for Visser’s wrist. He returned her grip and made it to his feet, but the birds above were still coming, row after row, bearing a nauseating smell of the sea and vomited fish.

The door of the bunker was still open. Haley turned and ran for that rectangle of sunlight, feeling another set of wings beating at the back of her neck, and tumbled outside. Her bag slipped from her shoulders. Leaving it where it had fallen, she ran for the boat. Giff had already emerged and was shouting for her to follow, blood streaming from cuts on his head. Visser was somewhere behind her.

Haley sprinted as fast as she could through the scrub, ignoring the angry scratches it left on her ankles and calves. She did not stop until she felt sand beneath her feet and saw the construction dock up ahead, and even then, she kept going until she was at the edge of the water, lungs aching, and her mind had finally caught up to the fact that the sound of wings had ceased.

She looked back. The herons were gone. Whatever had caused them to attack had not carried them past the airstrip. The only noise was that of her own pulse, ringing high up in her ears.

Giff was beside her, breathing hard. Visser was standing alone on the beach. He was looking directly at her, but his eyes did not seem to be registering his surroundings, and then he collapsed on the sand.

Haley scrambled back to him. When she was close enough to smell blood, she looked down and saw that the right leg of his khakis was all but soaked through to the knee with red.

She reached down, tearing away the fabric, as a warm jet rose in an arc from Visser’s inner thigh. The sharp beak of one of the herons had sliced open his femoral artery. She spun toward Giff. “Give me your belt.”

Giff complied, staring down at the man on the sand. Haley looped the end of the web belt through its buckle and ran it up Visser’s leg, as high as she could, and cinched it. She caught his eye. “It’s going to be okay.”

Visser said nothing. He was very pale. Looking up the beach, Haley saw a long trail of blood leading back to where they had emerged from the scrub. A gash to the femoral artery could cause death in less than two minutes, and despite the tourniquet, the blood was still flowing.

It seemed that Visser was trying to speak. In the end, whatever he wanted to say was lost as unconsciousness took hold, and before she could do anything more, he had grown still. He was dead.

Her hands were sticky, and the high sweet smell of copper filled her nose. She was about to rise, not knowing what to say or do, when she felt a light touch on her arm. Giff was pointing. “Look.”

She lifted her eyes. In the distance, the terns that had been perched on the lattices of the wind towers were taking off one row at a time. As she watched, the entire flock took flight, hundreds of birds ascending in unison, and before long, the scaffolds were empty again. Even before she saw where they were flying, she knew it in her heart. The flock was moving west, toward the lagoon, and then turning north in a single body. It was heading for the seastead.

III.

Haley laid Visser in the bottom of the boat, covering the body with a tarp from the port seat locker. A cell amplifier had been hooked up to the boat’s external antenna. Dialing the communications center in the seastead, she put the phone to her ear. As it rang with no answer, she kept her eyes fixed on the colony in the distance. The birds were still heading toward the nearest caisson, and at their current speed, they would be there in less than five minutes.

“We have to go.” Haley returned the phone to its cradle. As Giff got the motor running, she knelt by the locker that had held the tarp. Rooting around, she yanked out the remaining equipment, tossing aside a kedge line and an ensign flag before her hands finally closed on a canvas cockpit cover. She snapped it on, beginning with the fiberglass frame around the windshield, as Giff guided them away from the dock. The cover wasn’t thick, but it was something.

As soon as she had sealed up the cockpit, they headed into the lagoon. Haley was about to stow the equipment again when she saw one more item that had been concealed beneath the rest. It was a shotgun. Fishing it out to check the magazine, she found that it was loaded with six rounds. Haley stuck it beneath the seat, then went back to try the phone again.

On her second attempt, she raised someone in the communications center. To her relief, it was Amata, the colonist who had driven the crane the day before, and she knew that he was someone she could trust. She tried to speak calmly. “It’s Haley. We’re on our way back from Enyu. Listen carefully. You need to get everyone inside the seastead right now.”

Amata’s voice crackled across the poor connection. “What’s going on, Haley?”

She looked through the windshield, trying to describe what she was seeing without sounding insane. “There’s a mixed flock of terns and noddies heading your way. A thousand birds, maybe more. They’re not acting normally. If they intersect with you, there’s going to be damage. Maybe injuries. Or worse. You need to sound the alarm. If you can stow anything fragile, like the antennas, do it, but don’t waste any time. Pull the hurricane shutters if you can. The birds can’t break through the windows, but maybe we can reduce the harm.”

Amata evidently sensed the urgency in her voice. “I’ll take care of it. See you soon.”

He signed off. Haley hung up the phone and looked across the bow. “Take us as close as you can.”

Giff gave her a sideward glance. “You don’t want to hold back to see how it looks?”

“We can’t stay here,” Haley said. “I’m the reason half of these people are there in the first place. If it goes bad, I need to see it.”

Giff did not seem entirely persuaded, but he pushed the throttle forward, taking them faster across the lagoon, the water rising in a needlelike spray. The electric motor’s cruising speed seemed to be about fifty kilometers per hour. Haley didn’t know how fast terns could fly, probably around the same or more, but she doubted she would make it to the seastead before the birds did.

She focused on the flock up ahead, which had not deviated from its course. Along with the terns and noddies that she had noticed earlier, there were a few larger herons and frigatebirds. The flock seemed more populous than before, and when she looked to the west, she saw that it had been joined by another group from the outer islets. The sight sent a chill reverberating up her spine. She had seen plenty of birds by the turbines, but there were thousands more on the uninhabited parts of the atoll, and it looked like they were all coming at once.

When she looked forward again, she saw that the leading edge of the flock had reached the seastead. Within the overall group, they were moving in smaller clusters of five to ten, the masses breaking apart as they reached the outer platforms. Some were flying in single file, others in tight formations, in the kind of mobbing behavior she had seen before only in shearwaters. They were approaching very low across the ocean surface, their flight direct and level, but as they neared the caissons, they began to mount higher into the air.

Then they dove. The first set of birds met the solar array at the nearest platform, smashing into the panels at full speed. Many died at once, spiraling down to the roofs of the concrete terraces, while others continued to flop around on broken wings, squawking and defecating in their death throes. Dark gouts of blood began to appear at the places where the birds had struck, the panels clouded with fractures, and this was only the first wave.

Glancing at Giff, she could see the tendons standing out on his neck, but he steered the boat around to the caisson that bordered the aquaculture pens. Looking overhead, she saw the drone that had been conducting an aerial survey of Enyu. As she watched, it was mobbed by a dozen birds, which dipped and swerved in its path as if driving away a predator. The drone took a series of blows to its nacelle, toppled sideways, and plummeted toward the water, where it vanished with a splash. Several of the birds followed it all the way down.

They neared the aquaculture farm. The birds had been as drawn to it as much as to everything else, diving toward the nets on the surface of the water and becoming entangled in the mesh. Even from here, she could see dozens, maybe hundreds, of birds already caught in the pens, a living carpet of bodies that seemed to undulate in counterpoint to the movement of the waves. More continued to come, descending in one sortie after another, their screeching filling every inch of the air like thunder keyed to a higher pitch.

Looking toward the bioreactors, she saw the birds attacking them as well, swooping down over the plastic containers to slash them with their beaks or claw at them with their small feet. Enormous holes had opened up in the sides of several of the tubes, on which electronic sensors for transmitting data about the system had been strung like beads. Haley saw clouds of bluish green spilling out into the water as the algae inside oozed out, the weight of the birds piled on top squeezing the membranes flat like packages of toothpaste.

She turned to the greenhouse. Most of the panels had already been smashed. Through the panes, she could make out the nervous shadows of birds that had either broken their way through and survived or entered after others had cleared the way in, flitting from side to side within the confined space and rebounding off the walls. Everywhere she turned, she seemed to see her own dreams being annihilated with the seastead, the work of years lying in ruins.

There was a thump on the roof of the cockpit cover. Haley looked up. “Hold on—”

Her words were cut off by another series of collisions as the birds began to rain down on the boat, their wings battering wildly against the fabric. The canvas rippled inward with beaks and claws seeking a way through. An instant later, a bird crashed against the windshield, followed by two more, their bodies glancing off to one side as the boat plowed its way forward. One of them ricocheted off the glass at just the right angle and lay convulsing on the bow of the boat for a few seconds before sliding into the water with the rest.

Haley was about to tell Giff to pull back when she noticed something else. Near the net pens, an open boat was drifting freely, already covered in birds. There was no one inside, but when she looked more closely at the area of the lagoon beside it, she saw a lone human figure, still alive, treading water beneath the nets above the aquaculture farm. “It’s Manita.”

Without being asked, Giff steered the boat in that direction. “Can we pick her up?”

“Leave that to me.” Haley saw Manita turn toward the sound of the motor. The net afforded less than half a meter of headspace above the water, and it was being compressed even further by the weight of the dead or dying birds tangled up in the mesh. More terns and noddies were still diving onto the pens, and Haley saw that some of the birds trapped in the net were straining to reach the woman beneath with their beaks even as they struggled to escape.

Waving through the windshield, she caught Manita’s eye. Haley pointed at the water on the boat’s starboard side, and the biologist seemed to get the message. Giff steered the boat toward the aquaculture farm, bringing it around perpendicular to the net pens. Haley scooped up the shotgun from the floor of the boat and loosened a corner of the cockpit cover by the transom. The birds were still coming, the knocks redoubling against the canvas roof.

When Haley gave the nod, Manita dived down out of sight and began to swim underwater to the boat. Haley forced herself to wait until the other woman was nearly there, then tore away the cover. Sticking out her head and shoulders, she racked the shotgun and fired into the air, aiming away from the birds. At the sound of the blast, the terns around the boat scattered, veering off in all directions.

A second later, Manita surfaced behind the boat. As Haley set down the shotgun, Giff left the wheel and helped her haul the biologist onboard. Once Manita was safely inside, Haley snapped the cover down again, the birds hammering against the fabric as they regrouped and fought to get through.

Manita was dripping wet, her hair plastered to her face. Haley took her by the hand. She was shaking. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Manita looked down at the body on the floor. “Jesus. Is that Visser?”

“Yeah.” Haley turned to Giff, who had taken the helm again. “Bring us around to the floating dock and cut the engine.”

Giff obliged in silence. Beside her, Manita was looking out at what remained of the fish farm and bioreactors. Haley noticed that the biologist had several bloody scratches on her arms and legs, and that she was clutching a knife with a sheepsfoot blade. “What happened?”

Manita tried to collect herself. “I was checking the bioreactors when they came. It was an open boat. No cover. A few of them got at me. It didn’t give me more than a few seconds. I dove overboard and swam over to the fish farm. It was the only thing I could think of. I cut a pen open and squeezed inside. But they wouldn’t stop coming. What the hell is going on?”

Haley only recounted what had taken place on Enyu. When they were twenty meters from the floating dock, Giff killed the engine, and they waited there, not speaking, as the attack continued. Manita recoiled as a bird hit their boat and landed on the bow, still convulsing. There were no human faces in sight, and Haley hoped that most of the colonists had taken cover. She tried to see through the safety glass of the upper terraces, but was unable to make out anything inside. Some of the hurricane shutters had been lowered, but most of the windows were still exposed.

When she tried to raise the communications center again, no one answered, so all that remained was to watch as the seastead was obliterated. The fish farm and bioreactors were clearly lost, and the greenhouse had been severely damaged. Haley knew that nothing could undermine the caissons themselves, but as the birds hurled themselves headlong into any reflective surface, it seemed that they were determined to erase everything else.

It was several endless minutes before Haley noticed that the intervals between blows to the canvas were lengthening. In time, they ceased altogether. Looking up through the windshield, she saw that the sky was clear, and there no longer seemed to be any birds attacking the seastead itself.

Haley rose and peeled away one edge of the cockpit cover. Everything was quiet.

She pulled away the rest of the canvas, the snaps popping one by one. Turning to the east, she saw that the surviving birds had regathered into a single flock. As far as she could tell, they were heading toward Bikini, and as she watched, they continued inland, where they were lost almost at once in the trees.

Haley sank down again. Up ahead, the seastead was covered with tiny white clumps of dead terns, mingled with the darker noddies, like peppercorns strewn on ground that had been sown with salt.

Without speaking, Haley slid behind the wheel and started the engine. After she had guided the motorboat into the nearest berth on the floating dock, Manita went to tie them up, while Haley and Giff hauled Visser’s body out onto the platform. A few splotches of blood, like cartographic outlines, had soaked through the fabric of the tarp. Manita joined them a second later, the shotgun in her hands.

Dozens of dead birds lay at their feet. The air was thick with the stench of fish, and when Haley looked more carefully, she saw that many of the terns had regurgitated bits of food, the concrete soiled by fragments of shrimp and squid. A few of the birds were still alive, some flopping with their backs broken, others seizing or convulsing in place in a kind of pathetic dance.

Ignoring them for now, Haley approached the remaining boats that were moored at the dock. None seemed seriously damaged, although two had shattered windshields, and all were speckled with starbursts of blood and black marks from the beaks of the birds. As she was examining the final dinghy, a tern burst suddenly from the inside, its wings beating madly. Haley fell back, startled, and watched as it took off and headed away with the rest.

They entered the boat deck, where they lowered the door, stowed Visser’s body, and headed toward the covered walkway leading to the central caisson. In the silence, Haley gradually became aware of another set of sounds, which grew louder as they neared the hub of the seastead. They were human voices, most of them hushed, a few shouting or screaming.

As they moved along the causeway, there was a whine of static, and the public address system came to life. It was Ruben, who ordered all colonists to report to the common area. They filed into the hub along with the others, a few of whom were bleeding. Looking into their faces, Haley saw fear there, but also a veiled reproach, although she wasn’t sure whether or not it was directed at her.

Upstairs, the common area was already packed. In one corner, the seastead’s resident medic had set up a station to dress cuts and bruises. Haley gathered that some of the colonists had been injured directly by the birds, while others had been hit by debris or broken glass. Underlying everything was a palpable sense of panic, and Haley sensed that it would break out into an unpredictable form if they failed to get it immediately under control.

Ruben was at the center of the room, speaking with an agitated group in Marshallese. When he saw Haley, he took a step forward. He seemed to be trying his best to keep a handle on the crowd. “What do you know?”

Haley gave him a short account of what had taken place on Enyu. When he heard that Visser was dead, Ruben glanced to one side. Following his gaze, Haley saw that Jansen was standing in the corner, and she remembered that the older woman didn’t know what had happened to her colleague.

As a tally was taken of the room, it emerged that there was another casualty, a female colonist who had been alone in the greenhouse when the birds descended. One of the men claimed to have seen her body as he was coming back to the hub. According to him, her eyes had been pecked out.

At a look from Ruben, Haley repeated her story. Upon hearing of Visser’s death, Jansen grew pale and turned away, fumbling out her satellite phone. Haley wanted to approach her, but before she could, the conversation had turned to the prospect of evacuation.

Giff was the first to speak. “Even if we decide to go, we’re hundreds of kilometers from the nearest inhabited island. It could be days before a plane can get here. And it wouldn’t be able to take everyone.”

Haley looked at Jansen, who was talking into her phone in a lowered voice. “There’s a research ship at Romurikku. Can it come for us?”

Jansen seemed visibly shaken, but she nodded. “I’ll tell them. They’ll have to come around to the channel. It may be a few hours.”

Ruben addressed the group. “Then we’ll vote. A show of hands in favor of staying.”

Giff lifted his hand high. After a moment, so did a few other colonists. The rest only sat in silence, and when the vote was called in favor of evacuating, almost everyone else, including Manita, assented. Haley did not cast a vote either way. When they were done, she looked around the room. “If there’s a chance of another attack, we don’t want to bring the ship here. These birds seem drawn to structures or movement. The ship can hold station at the channel near Enyu. We’ll head over in any boats that can be covered. How many do we have?”

After a quick inventory, it became clear that five usable boats remained, including the electric dinghy that Visser had provided. Four were moored on the floating dock, while the fifth, which Manita had used while checking the bioreactors, was still drifting near the aquaculture pens, where it could be retrieved. A sixth was at Bikini, and although a few of the colonists offered to go for it, it was decided that the five boats they had would be enough.

Haley ended up at the center of the evacuation effort, rounding up volunteers to get the covers on the boats and to put up the hurricane shutters. Without being conscious of it, she had accepted that she was leaving the seastead for a long time, perhaps forever, and she found herself ticking off its vulnerabilities, wondering how best to prepare it for being abandoned.

As she was heading downstairs, Ruben pulled her aside. “I know you don’t want this. But an evacuation is going to happen whether we like it or not. Better to handle it in a form we can control.”

She saw that he was acting as bravely as he knew how. “What if they attack again?”

Ruben held her gaze. “We keep going. If we turn back, this becomes a panic. And I don’t know how that will end.”

As the councilman was called away, Haley continued down to the galley. Earlier, she had been struck by an idea, and now she gathered up an armful of cans, a roll of tape, a pair of tin snips, and a propane torch.

On her way out, she ran into Manita. The biologist still seemed shocked by the loss of the bioreactors and the death of the woman in the greenhouse, whom she had seen less than an hour before the attack, but her voice was steady. “There’s something I need to show you.”

Haley was about to say that it could wait, but something in Manita’s eyes convinced her. “What is it?”

Manita drew her into a storage room off the corridor and closed the door behind them. “I didn’t have time to tell you earlier. You remember how I said that the levels of fish here have been increasing?”

Haley felt another prickle. “I was wondering if the birds were running out of food.”

“They aren’t. It’s the opposite. I haven’t seen fish in these numbers for years. But that isn’t what bothered me. Once a month, I run a comparison of water samples, one from the area by the bioreactors, the other from our sampling station offshore. This morning, after we talked, I found these.”

She opened her hand. Cupped in her palm were a few small gray pellets. Haley stared. “What are they?”

Manita told her. Haley listened, and for a long moment afterward, she could do nothing but stand in silence. Finally, she told Manita what to do. The biologist gave her a nod and left.

On the lowest level of the hub, there was a room for the seastead’s battery bank, lined with rack after rack of vanadium cells, which would have to be shut down as part of the evacuation. Haley descended the companionway alone, and she was going from one disconnect switch to the next when Jansen entered behind her. “I was told that you wanted to talk to me.”

Haley switched off the last rack and closed the door. “The ship is on its way?”

“They’ll be at the channel in forty minutes. I told them to cover up anything reflective on the outside, in case the birds are being drawn to it. What exactly is it that you wanted?”

“I won’t waste your time,” Haley said. “I was hoping you could explain something. We can talk about it here, in private, or we can go upstairs and you can tell the entire colony. It’s up to you.”

Reaching into her pocket, she set the pellets on the surface of the rack between them. Jansen took them in for a second. Finally, she appeared to reach a decision, and her hard features grew fractionally wearier. “We’re conducting iron fertilization. It’s been ongoing for the last three months. We do it mostly at night.”

“I’ve already gathered that much,” Haley said. “Did Ruben know about this?”

Jansen shook her head. “Nobody at the colony was aware of it. It had to be done in secret. Technically, it’s still illegal. But the only way to convince anyone of its merits is to conduct a test on a large scale.”

“So it was a proof of concept. Like the seastead. And you chose a place where no one who mattered would notice until you were done—”

“It wasn’t my decision to keep it from you. We wouldn’t have conducted these tests if it hadn’t been approved on a higher level. You sold the rights to your offshore waters a long time ago. Those rights never lapsed. They’ve just changed hands a few times. It was part of the arrangement with Deventer. Whatever reparations you hope to get are decades away. We needed something now. And you have it to thank for all of this. Otherwise, the colony wouldn’t even exist.”

“I’d say it doesn’t have much of a chance of existing anyway. What did you do?”

Jansen glanced away. “It was the largest test we’ve ever conducted. Previous studies were restricted to a few hundred square kilometers, and they would just dump iron sulfate in the ocean, where it sinks right away. We bind the iron with lignin and compress it into pellets. It allows it to persist for longer.”

“And what happened?” Haley asked. “You saw an increase in sea life offshore?”

Jansen gave a quick nod. “There have been huge algal blooms. Most of it is a few kilometers past the reef, so you wouldn’t have seen the effects here. The blooms have been heaviest over the last few months. We noticed an increase in the biomass of phytoplankton right away. Then it worked its way up the food chain. More shrimp, more squid, more fish.”

“But it changed the ecosystem in ways you didn’t predict. Including the birds. Did Visser know?”

“None of us did. Not until today. We thought that whatever negative effects it had would be containable. We were wrong.”

Haley looked into Jansen’s eyes, which had grown fixed and glassy. “I still don’t understand the point. When you told the world, what did you expect? We’re not going to turn back climate change.”

“No,” Jansen said. “That ship has sailed. Politically, if not scientifically. But we can do what we can with the time we have. Deventer ran the numbers. Iron fertilization is the cheapest way to sequester large amounts of carbon. We could sell the credits to polluters. Let factories and power plants keep operating if we sink enough carbon into the sea here. It won’t make anything worse, and in the meantime, it’s an income stream. It’s more realistic than the hope of reparations. You can’t trust any one solution. There always has to be a safety line.”

Haley did not look away. “Unless the safety line snaps first. But that’s the only reason you agreed to fund this. You don’t think the reparations will pay off. It was all just to humor us.”

Jansen’s air of control began to crumble. “If it matters, I’m sorry. It hurts me as much as it does you. And if I could take it back, I would.”

Haley turned toward the battery bank. “Just make sure the ship gets here on time.”

She did not look at Jansen again. After a pause, the older woman left the room. Haley remained there for another minute, checking to make sure that the switches were off, and then she headed back to the upper level. She felt as if she had been hollowed out on the inside.

Half an hour later, word came that the research ship was holding station at the mouth of the channel. There were no birds in sight.

On the top level of the hub, the colonists had been divided into five groups. At a nod from Ruben, Haley motioned for the first cohort of twenty to follow her downstairs. In her hands, she was carrying the object she had built earlier. It consisted of five empty cans taped in a row, their tops and bottoms partially removed, with the propane torch inserted through a hole in the base of the first cylinder.

They entered the lowest level of the outer caisson and continued on to the boat deck. All was silent. Visser was still there, wrapped up like an offering, along with the body of the woman from the greenhouse, which two other colonists had retrieved. On closer examination, it had been determined that her eyes had not been pecked out after all, and that she most likely had died of a heart attack.

Haley saw the colonists casting nervous glances at the bodies as they filed toward the door to the dock, which was lowered. She gave a signal to Giff, who had volunteered to remain until the last boat was gone. He went to the door, pulled the manual release, and slid it up its rails.

They stood looking out at the dock. Four meters of exposed space lay between them and the boats. It was covered with the bodies of terns, dead noddies, and regurgitated gobbets of fish and squid. Aside from the sound of the water lapping against the framework of the caisson, it was utterly quiet.

Giff waved forward the colonists, who began to move toward the nearest dinghy. Haley remained inside the boat deck, her eyes riveted to the sky. There was no sign of life anywhere between here and Bikini.

One by one, the colonists lowered themselves into the boat, packed as closely together as possible. The last to come out was Jansen, who had been asked to depart with the first group to coordinate the boarding process. Before leaving, she went to Visser’s body and lifted it by the shoulders, with Giff picking it up by the legs. The other colonists made as much room as they could as the body was lowered into the boat, followed by the second victim.

When they were done, Giff gave three pulls to the starter rope, and the engine began to rumble. As two other men pulled the cover into place, he climbed onto the dock and uncleated the lines. Then he came back to watch as one of the colonists took the tiller and steered the boat away from the slip. Haley spoke softly. “Tell Ruben to send the next group down.”

Giff went to the handset mounted by the door of the boat deck and made the call. The first dinghy was already a hundred meters out. Haley continued to watch the skies, and as the next group arrived, she saw a number of white and black specks appear over the trees on Bikini. It was a flock of terns and noddies, and from here, it was hard to tell whether or not they were heading this way. Giff saw them a second after she did. “What do you think?”

Haley raised the metal tube in her hands. “We keep going. If we stop, we may not get a second chance.”

Giff gestured for the others to move as Haley kept her eyes on the birds. There was no doubt now that they were coming. She estimated that they had several minutes before the flock arrived, and she was about to tell the second boat to leave when another mass of birds, which had approached unseen over the top of the caisson, descended without any warning.

Within seconds, the birds were everywhere. As they began to dive toward the boats and the platform, the colonists screamed, but before panic could take hold, Haley raised the tube in her hands. Switching on the propane torch, she counted to five, and then she pulled the trigger.

A blue fireball erupted from the mouth of the outermost can, accompanied by a deafening blast. The sound was what counted, not the flame, and as soon as the birds heard it, they scattered. Haley shouted at Giff to get the last of the colonists on board. He herded the rest onto the boat, and then it was off, the men inside struggling to pull the cover into place as they sped off into the lagoon.

The birds were throwing themselves against the sides of the boat deck. As the sound of wings rose, Giff looked at Haley for approval, then went to the handset. “Send the last three groups now.”

A deckwash pump stood to one side of the deck. Giff switched it on and took up the washdown hose. When one bird, followed by another, appeared at the door, he squeezed the sprayer, and a pressurized burst of water swept the birds out of sight. He caught her eye again. “I’m going out.”

Haley knew better than to tell him otherwise. As the remaining evacuees began to appear, Giff ducked down and went out to the exposed part of the dock, the hose unspooling behind him. Haley followed him outside, where the birds were descending in huge sorties, with more colliding with the platform and tumbling down to the surface of the caisson.

Giff aimed the hose toward the boats, sweeping the spray from side to side, as if laying down cover fire. Haley waited. As soon as the first half of the group had emerged, she squeezed the trigger of the propane canister. Another fireball exploded from the poofer, sending birds wheeling away, and in the brief respite it granted, the next set of colonists was able to board.

They did it two more times. Whenever the birds gathered, Giff drove them away with the hose, and when their numbers increased past the point where he could handle it, Haley fired the poofer again. A few managed to break through, diving to strike with their claws and beaks, leaving only a few scratches and cuts. The third boat was halfway to the channel, followed closely by the fourth.

Ruben was on the final boat. As he lowered himself into the dinghy, Haley could tell that he was wondering if she would leave. “This isn’t the end. I’ll see you on the ship. We need you there.”

“I’m right behind you,” Haley said shortly. “Hurry up. I don’t know how much longer we can hold them off.”

Ruben sat down with the last group. As he did, Giff exchanged a look with Haley. He sprayed one more jet from the hose, clearing the deck, and jumped down into the boat. Haley fired the poofer, driving away the remaining birds. She could tell from the weight of the canister that it was close to empty.

Giff took the tiller. He kept his eyes on her until the cover was snapped into place and the boat was on its way.

Haley stood there for a second, alone, as the final group departed. Overhead, the birds were returning. She set the poofer on the floor inside the boat deck, then yanked the door the rest of the way down. Once it was shut, she waited, listening, as the collisions against the outside of the caisson resumed. She was the only human being left in the entire colony.

For a minute, she gathered herself, feeling the empty seastead stretching around her to all sides. The idea of simply staying behind had occurred to her more than once. At last, however, she moved on. Ruben was right. This was not the end. She just had to turn off the lights.

Leaving the boat deck, she continued along the interior walkway until she reached the generator room at the far edge of the platform. She went from one generator to the next, switching them all off, and when the last had been powered down, the overhead lights blinked out.

Haley took a flashlight from the wall and used it to find her way to the hub. Then she paused. The sound of the collisions had ceased, as if an invisible button had been pressed. All the birds had gone silent.

She went up to the common area. Going to the largest window, she opened it and manually cranked back the hurricane shutter.

Birds were perched on every surface of the seastead. Haley saw them clustered on the photovoltaic arrays, on the concrete roofs, on the walkways, on the decks along the platforms. There were hundreds of terns and noddies, maybe thousands, along with the uncounted bodies of birds that had died trying to smash their way inside. But they were not attacking.

A noddy sat on the ledge below the window. She looked into its solemn, lethargic face. As it tilted its head to one side to fix its dim eyes on hers, she sensed that whatever had been happening was over. At the back of her mind, she began to understand why, but she pushed the thought away for now.

She made her way down to the lowest level. In one corner of the boat deck, there was a dive station with scuba gear. Haley heard the birds stirring gently against the sides of the seastead as she pulled on her tank, half mask, and weight belt. She adjusted her straps, feeling as if she were saying farewell to the only chapter of her life that would ever matter, and then went to the door and raised it.

On the deck outside, the birds were standing in silent ranks. She lowered the door behind her, then began to inch past the birds, picking her way to the edge. They continued to watch her, not moving, but when she looked closer, she saw some of them trembling, shifting back and forth on their little feet.

She made it to the side. Taking a seat on the lip of the platform, she pulled on her fins and bit down on her mouthpiece. Then she pushed herself off into the clear waters of the lagoon.

Haley descended, listening to herself breathing, the silver bubbles sliding past her cheek. When she looked up, she saw the floating bodies of birds outlined against the sky. She swam carefully, weaving her way past the anchor cables tethering the caisson to the bed, and was about to head for Bikini, where one boat remained, when something made her pivot and swim in the other direction.

At the bottom of the lagoon lay a shipwreck. Switching on her flashlight, she directed it toward the carcass of the destroyer, a hundred meters long, that sat upright against the white sand of the seabed. The hull was horribly twisted and damaged, with an enormous gash below the superstructure, which had been smashed amidships like a concertina. It had taken the impact squarely on its port side, its hull plates buckling to reveal the girders underneath.

Haley studied the wreck, which looked black and white in the darkness. It was one of ninety ships that had been brought to Bikini for the bomb tests. Some had been painted orange for visibility, while others had been filled with animals, the goats and pigs penned in place like sacrificial victims.

Now it lay here, as if in silent contemplation. The hull was overgrown with whip corals, the big fans sprouting from the end of its forward guns, and schools of glass fish and marbled grouper were weaving among the lavender ropes. Any exposed areas had been coated in a soft red silt. There was a message here, although it seemed too large for her to glimpse it all at once.

Haley regarded the wreck for a long moment. Then she turned and began to swim the half kilometer to where the final boat awaited.

Turning on the pump, Haley picked up the washdown hose. A mask was tied over the lower half of her face, and she had put a dab of mentholated ointment on her upper lip to block out the stench. Directing the jet of water toward the surface of the caisson, she began to wash it free of blood. It was oddly consoling work, and it took her a moment to realize that she was not alone.

Manita spoke from behind her. “I tried to reach you. You haven’t been responding.”

Haley fixed her eyes on the deck as she sprayed away the offal. “I’ve been busy. It took a few days just to dump what was left of the birds into the lagoon. They were pretty rotten. But the sharks will take them.”

She finally looked at Manita. A month had passed since the evacuation. She had spent most of the last week trying to get her way back, hitching a ride on a cargo ship on its way to Guam, then covering the rest of the distance in an inflatable tender. It had not occurred to her to make arrangements for a return journey, but a quick check of the seastead had confirmed that enough of it had survived to keep her alive indefinitely. “How did you get here?”

“Probably the same way you did,” Manita said. “There’s a weekly ship to Honolulu. I managed to convince them to drop me off at Enyu. There are a still few boats out by the construction dock, if you don’t mind swinging an oar. I’m surprised that you didn’t see us.”

“I haven’t looked out to sea in a long time. There’s more than enough to handle here.” Haley studied the other woman. “Any birds?”

“No. Everything’s quiet. According to Deventer, the effects of iron fertilization take just twenty days to disperse. For the impact to last, the process has to be continuous. But it looks like a permanent drop in the bird population.” Manita looked to the west. “Maybe there are some on the outer islets. But I don’t know.”

Haley turned off the hose. Her questions lay like a lump in her chest. “Have they said anything else?”

“A little. I figured you’d want to hear it. And I wanted to ask if you’re coming back.”

“I’ll finish cleaning up first. Then we’ll see.” Haley led her toward the edge of the dock. “So talk to me.”

Manita sat down, looking out at the lagoon. “They’re going to release a report. Iron fertilization creates huge algal blooms, but you don’t know what you’ll get in advance. It alters the community structure to favor certain kinds of phytoplankton. In this case, it was a species called pseudonitzschia. Ever hear of it?”

Haley nodded. “Yeah. I’ve had time to do a lot of reading. And I know that it’s happened before.”

“But not on this scale. Pseudonitzschia is an oceanic species. Under normal conditions, it’s a bit player. But it responds particularly well to iron fertilization. And it’s toxic. It produces domoic acid, which accumulates in fish and squid. When they’re eaten by birds, chronic exposure can cause neurological damage. They become confused, suffer seizures, engage in mobbing behavior. Toxicity is highest in coastal waters. And it can lead to attacks on humans or buildings.”

Haley understood. “Which is why it didn’t affect migrant birds, like the shearwaters. They were just passing through, so they weren’t exposed to enough of it. Only the birds that nested and fed here.”

“That’s how it looks.” Manita paused. “I can’t prove it, but it’s possible that the toxin caused the birds to attack particular structures. The damage from domoic acid is concentrated on the hippocampus. For some species, like terns, it’s the structure they use to navigate. It’s particularly sensitive to electromagnetic interference, like the kind that would be produced by wind turbines, or the electric motors on some of the boats, or radio transmitters, or solar cells. They were drawn to it. It caused them to cyclically attack and regroup—”

“—and it ended when we shut it all down.” Haley felt the sting of tears, but she fought them away. “And Deventer?”

Manita looked down at her reflection. “They’ve stopped the tests. It wasn’t just about the birds. It’s unclear how well the process sequesters carbon at all. When phytoplankton die, they don’t always sink down to the seabed. Sometimes they return to the food chain. Whatever sequestration occurs is probably only temporary. So it doesn’t look like a viable source of carbon credits.”

“Which means that there’s no more money,” Haley said. “No cash flow. Even if the reparations come through a decade from now, we need money today. Nobody is going to want to live here otherwise.”

“Maybe not. But they can’t take away what you have. You were right to put all this together when you could. It exists. Nothing can change that.” Manita turned to her. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Whatever I can repair or salvage, I’ll keep. The rest I’ll close down. I’ve got enough here to keep me alive. As for everybody else—” Haley hesitated. “What are they saying?”

“Ruben is back on Majuro. So are most of the others. Giff keeps talking about coming back, but he’s got his own life to consider. And I need to think it over.” Manita reached out and took her hand. “If you want me to stay for now, I will. At least for long enough to get it running again.”

Haley squeezed back. Then she drew away. “I’d like that. But I want to be alone for a little while. You can get set up in the hub. It’s the cleanest part. I’ll come and find you later.”

Manita headed silently inside. Haley remained where she was for another moment, then stood. Picking up the hose, she finished cleansing the blood from the platform, then removed her mask and stowed the pump. There was one last thing she had to do, and she had been postponing it for days.

The tender she had taken here was moored by the floating dock. She saw that Manita had tied a rowboat beside it. Smiling slightly, she lowered herself down and cast off the lines.

Half an hour later, she was on Enyu. Leaving the tender by the construction dock, she walked up the coral beach, heading through the scrub toward the airstrip. Ranks of replanted coconut trees stood to either side.

Haley walked along the towers, which loomed like sentinels on the eastern edge of the islet, where the trade winds were strongest. When she reached the last one, she began to climb. There were a few signs of damage, but nothing that could not be repaired, if not by her, then by those who might come later.

Reaching the top of the tower, she worked her away around so that she was facing the lagoon. From here, she could see the full extent of the seastead. It was battered, with the shreds and patches of the bioreactors and net pens still drifting freely on the surface of the water. Most of the photovoltaic panels had been smashed, and all the windows were dark. But it was still there.

She raised her eyes toward the west. At the far edge of the lagoon was a bright patch of blue water. Looking at the crater that had been left by the nuclear tests, Haley reminded herself that the best way to make something lasting was to grow it piece by piece, like the reef. She could scale it back. Not as a colonist, but as a caretaker, preparing the way for others to return. Manita was right. Nothing could take away what she already had. She didn’t need their money, their resources, or even their support. All she needed was herself.

A flock of shearwaters was feeding over the water. Haley kept her eyes on it. Then she turned away and descended the tower again, going down just as she had climbed up— alone, and without a harness.

Alec Nevala-Lee is currently at work on the nonfiction book Astounding: John W. Campbell, Isaac Asimov, Robert A. Heinlein, L. Ron Hubbard, and the Golden Age of Science Fiction, which will be released by Dey Street Books, an imprint of HarperCollins, in 2018. His novels include The Icon Thief, City of Exiles, and Eternal Empire, all published by Penguin, and his stories have appeared in Analog, Lightspeed, and The Year’s Best Science Fiction. He lives with his wife and daughter in Oak Park, Illinois, and he blogs daily at www.nevalalee.com.

Twilight’s Captives

Christopher L. Bennett | 10079 words

Illustrated by Eldar Zakirov

In Madeleine Kamakau’s long experience, one could learn much about a society from its angry mobs. The focus of their protests could illuminate its values, its priorities, and its degree of unity or division, while their character and tone could reveal much about its rationality and stability. Now, as she followed her escort through the main thoroughfare of the small Daikoku colony, Madeleine observed that the protestors lining its curbs were orderly, civil, and self-disciplined, almost embarrassed by the deep anger they had come here to express. The dense air filtered the light of the setting Ktype sun to a melodramatic blood-red, evoking the familiar footage of the firelit riot that had already become an interstellar flashpoint, and yet these people who had lived through that riot resisted the urge to succumb to the same fury once again. Nevertheless, their chants and placard animations left no doubt that they felt violated to the core by what the Nocturne League had done here. “No negotiation!” “Don’t make deals with darkness!” “Give us back our babies!”

Inwardly, Madeleine ached for them. It had been well over a subjective century since the war in Chryse Planitia had taken three of her children, but at times she still felt the grief as though it were fresh. She vividly remembered the terror when her fourteenth child had been kidnapped to undermine her peacemaking efforts among the Martian states. And she still lived with the pain of the day, half a century ago at the start of the warp era, when she’d returned from a months-long diplomatic mission to find that her latest husband had divorced her in absentia and taken their two children. She knew every flavor of the anguish, loss, and rage she saw in these parents’ eyes, and then some.

Yet if that flame were allowed to spread, it could spark an interstellar war that would only kill more children. Madeleine could not, would not, allow that.

Daikoku’s governor, Sato Leiji, met his people’s eyes supportively. “Our League clientship has been trouble from the start,” the younger man told her with quiet intensity. “So many rules they insisted we follow—just excuses to impose extortionate penalties, gain control bit by bit. But we never expected it to go this far. Interpret the rules differently and they steal your children?” he went on with rising volume. “Burn your houses, kill your families?”

This was a dangerous time to play to the crowd. “I’m sure no one is assuming the loss of life—either human or Aksash’sk—was intentional,” Madeleine countered, using a tone of gentle implacability developed over more than a century of motherhood and politics.

Sato calmed under her gaze. “Certainly, it was a tragedy. But the Aksash provoked it.”

Madeleine’s Denzeuur colleague, Rabnaara Vutiiri, flipped his head up and over on its swanlike neck to face the governor. The quadruped’s pear-shaped body was front-back symmetrical, and the vertical symmetry of his head let it function either side up. To human eyes, it was a disarming trait, and Rabnaara used it cagily. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he observed in his soft clarinet voice. “But every point of view has its flip side.” He blinked his loris-like eyes and waggled the sunburst of whiskers around his broad, lavender-furred face. Madeleine smirked. Denzeuur were subtle, shrewd people, good at putting others at ease... and off their guard.

Sato faltered a bit. “Even if the Nocturnes had a case about our alleged violations, it wouldn’t justify kidnapping. Or precipitating an incident that claimed lives. The Akisu are the criminals here.”

Madeleine’s gaze subtly chastised him for the racial slur, the Japanese word for “sneak thief.” “Who did what, and why, is a matter for our investigation,” Madeleine replied. “But it would surely be a crime to let our anger spark a war.”

“Is that all you see?” One protestor stepped forward: a tall woman, bronze-haired with epicanthic green eyes. “Some cold exercise in galactic strategy? Are our children just variables in an equation to you?”

“Claire...” the governor cautioned. “Ambassador Kamakau, Mediator Vutiiri, this is Claire Takeuchi- san. Her Shannon- chan is one of the prisoners.”

“I’m sorry for you,” Madeleine said sincerely.

Claire was unmoved. “Of course you are,” she scoffed, looming over the ambassador. “The pain of a small colony out in the boondocks matters so much more to the Planetary Commonwealth than your vital trade arrangements. What do you plan to do? Buy peace with our children’s lives?”

“There’s no reason to believe their lives are in danger,” Madeleine tried to reassure her.

“You face down an Axe charging you with bloody claws and tell me that. You watch your house burned down, your daughter get ripped from you by those claws, and tell me that!” Her rhetoric began agitating the crowd. Reluctantly, the governor nodded to the guards to escort her away. “This isn’t some diplomatic puzzle, this is about family!” Claire called out.

“Don’t sell our children!” a protestor cried in sympathy. The crowd readily picked up the chant.

Rabnaara stroked Madeleine’s back, seeking calm as much as offering it. “Don’t listen to her. If she had any idea how many children you’ve raised...”

“It’s all right, Rab.” Madeleine understood how the young mother felt. Modern medicine and relativistic starflight had brought her through more than two centuries with her Polynesian features unlined and her meter-long hair still shimmering black, save for the wellcultivated white streak emerging from her left temple. But outliving great-great-grandchildren made one feel one’s age.

The Denzeuur who met them within the Nocturne League compound (dimly lit as a symbolic compromise between nocturnal and diurnal negotiators) was larger, longer-furred and brighter-hued than Rabnaara, looking just a bit too perfect and engineered. Madeleine recognized that this was a native of the species’ birthworld, Toraam. “I am Mufiikalaa, Senior Negotiator, native to the argosy Holy Reciprocity,” the Toraau bass-fluted. Mufii and Rabnaara greeted each other with ritual grooming, but Madeleine sensed veiled tension in Rab’s body language. The Toraau had chosen to become asexual, factory-grown organisms, anathema to the family-centered value system of Rab’s far-flung colony, Taarzerek. And to Madeleine’s own, come to that, but she had more experience with keeping her objectivity.

Despite her extensive experience with xenosophonts, Madeleine felt an instinctive chill when the Aksash’sk emerged from a shadowed doorway. They were fearsome beings, theroid pack-hunters built like raptor dinosaurs with bulbous fishy eyes, a spiked fin cresting the bristle-haired skull, and a snapping-turtle beak with snake tongues writhing from the corners. Madeleine wondered if her heat pattern was as disquieting to the Aksash’sk’s infrared vision. Well, maybe their tongues would savor the scent of the Cybelene flower in her hair.

The lead Aksash’sk stepped forward. “Rha Tak Ch’kihha,” Mufii introduced him, rendering the barks and snaps with their approximations in Denzeuur phonetics. “Senior Arbiter of the High Business Council of Aksash.” A specialist from the homeworld. Not regular League? It was sometimes hard to tell where Aksash left off and the League began.

Ch’kihha’s tongues probed Madeleine’s breath as the human introduced herself. Not that Madeleine Kamakau needed introduction—Mother of the Mars Republic, Midwife of the Planetary Commonwealth, bringer of warp cages to the Nocturne League, moderately acclaimed poet and linguist, written about in countless history texts and still around to correct most of the distortions... or cultivate the ones which suited her. But there was nothing an Aksash’sk negotiator loved more than overconfident prey across the table. She gave her name with unaffected modesty.

Once the introductions were past, Ch’kihha lowered his head in submission to an unseen superior. “May the Higher Powers bless this exchange and bring satisfaction to all parties,” read the translation text in Madeleine’s retinal HUD, supplementing her own interpretation of the language. “May both sides gain profit and enlightenment in equal balance.”

They sat on cushions around a low table, accommodating Nocturne anatomies as well as Daikokujin customs. “First,” Ch’kihha opened, “we express profound regret at the loss of life on both sides. The Nocturne League exists to promote balanced exchange and satisfaction, thus to eliminate the causes of conflict. Know that we are committed to understanding how the process failed here, so that such failures will not recur.”

“We have confidence in that commitment,” Madeleine said smoothly, “and share it. We look forward to working together to discover what caused this tragic misunderstanding and to arrive at a peaceable resolution.”

Ch’kihha’s tongues swept across his eyes— the Aksash’sk equivalent of a blink. “Your offer is gracious, but the Arbiters’ Branch is thorough and efficient. We are prepared to present our findings now.”

“Excuse me,” Madeleine replied. “It was our understanding that this was to be a joint investigation.”

“Daikoku is a signatory to the Nocturne Code of Mercantile Ethics and Standards,” the Arbiter declared. “We have the authority to investigate and punish Code violations.”

Sato bristled. “This isn’t a business deal! Petros and Midori Makarios died in that fire— and their boy Teruo is still missing! Is he one of your prisoners, or did you murder him too?”

“The fire was started by human agitators resisting our punitive action!”

“My people were defensively armed with whatever was available, including arc welders and other tools. The fire would never have happened if you hadn’t decided to steal our children. Let’s not forget—Nishimori Kenji’s death came at Aksash claws! A death so brutal there was no way we could reverse it with the resources we have here.”

“We defended ourselves,” Ch’kihha hissed, his tail lashing with suppressed anger. “The first kill was yours.”

Madeleine turned to Sato. “Is this true?”

Some regret showed through his anger. “It wasn’t deliberate! We... the Aksash are from a Jovian moon. Their bones are more fragile. And then the fire engulfed the... the body... and there was no chance for revival. Kenji- san was no killer. He was a father fighting to protect his little girl from creatures who wanted—”

“You’ve made your point, Governor,” Madeleine advised, softly but irresistibly.

Mufii-kalaa’s head craned forward. “Agreed... recriminations for the past cannot help us build a better future. We of the League seek balance in all things. There is blood enough on both sides of the ledger, so let us call it balanced and close it for good.”

“Very wise,” Rabnaara purred. “We should focus on the future. On our children, who are our future.”

“Thank you, Rabnaara,” Madeleine said. He’d expressed her thoughts perfectly. “The children are the real issue here. Our first priority is to verify the safety of the hostages and assure—”

“Hostages?!” Ch’kihha was on his feet, neck thrusting toward her. Madeleine yelped and fell back off her cushion. “How dare you? Taking what someone already has, to offer in trade for more of what they have...” He growled disgustedly, his claws twitching. “It is unbalanced! Shameful! Do you take us for barbarians?!”

Ashamed of her moment of panic, Madeleine strove to regain her center along with her seat. “Forgive... my misunderstanding, Arbiter. No offense was meant. But then...”

“We acted in the children’s interest,” Ch’kihha went on, anticipating her question. “Rescued them from the criminal irresponsibility of their own community. Now, raised by our finest brooders, they will have the best of care, education, and opportunity.”

“Call it what it really is,” Sato challenged. “Slavery, pure and simple!”

“In fact, your children have a noble destiny before them,” Mufii-kalaa interposed. “We do not blame the Daikokujin for your failure to understand our Code and abide faithfully by its wisdom. Adjusting to alien values can be difficult and confusing.

“But human children raised within the Nocturne League will be able to internalize our principles and relate them to our human clients in terms they can appreciate. The children of Daikoku will be the bridge between League and Commonwealth, bringing a new era of understanding and peaceful commerce.”

“That’s a commendable goal,” Madeleine said carefully. “Surely many would volunteer for such a project.”

“The proposal was made,” Ch’kihha said. “Our terms were rejected.”

“They amounted to the same thing,” Sato protested. “Separating us completely from our own children!”

“While we salute your high ideals,” Rabnaara said to the arbiter, “your choice is regrettably based on a misunderstanding. The effect of separating children from their families cannot be positive.”

“The commitment of the Taarzeuur to their system of genetic bonds is well-known,” Mufii-kalaa replied. “But the wise being adapts to each situation, reversing where needed.”

“In general, a sound philosophy.” Both Denzeuur grew smoother and more polite with each sentence. Madeleine could tell they despised each other. “But my esteemed counterpart from Toraam has perhaps forgotten that there is... asymmetry... in matters of family. Parents cannot reverse themselves if it takes them away from their young.”

“Guiding the development of a new mind is a task of unmatched importance and delicacy. Surely it is best pursued by highly qualified personnel. These children will be in the hands of Aksash’sk brooders, a sex solely dedicated to the nurturing of young, and of Toraau educators with centuries of practical experience.”

“Children need more than skill and experience,” Rabnaara insisted, his whiskers gone rigid. “Take away the bond of family and you destroy a part of them.”

“Does the mere fact of contributing genes to a child automatically make one an expert in childrearing? If so, how could there be abused children, neglected children, children raised without proper moral guidance?”

“How can there be love when offspring are made to order in a lab?”

Madeleine laid a hand on Rabnaara’s arm, halting his achingly civil tirade. “Gentlebeings,” she addressed the room, “I don’t think any of us intended this first meeting to be an intensive debate. Perhaps we should adjourn to absorb tonight’s discussion and prepare our cases.”

Ch’kihha made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “You will download our findings for review. After sufficient time for study, we will reconvene to clarify any confusion.”

“Meanwhile,” Mufii-kalaa injected, “we will take your concerns about the children under consideration.” In the wake of the negotiator’s prior statements, the concession highlighted the Denzeuur knack for compromise.

“Yes,” seconded Ch’kihha after a moment’s thought. “You have a right to be reassured of your children’s well-being. We will prepare for discussions on this point.”

Now if only Madeleine could decipher what it meant. Might they be willing to negotiate the children’s release after all? And if so... what price might they demand?

The human young were still huddled in their chamber when Ch’kihha entered the brooders’ compound at his alpha’s side. Sh’thai, the senior brooder, approached them with a drooping neck and tail. She was larger than the males and females whose seed she carried to term. Her body hair was thick and soft and her fingers unclawed, the better to handle the cubs she reared. “They still do not let us near,” she said to Alpha Kh’tlau. “They must have been so neglected, with no brooders to care for them. How can we help them heal when they fear we will eat them?” She absently shooed a cub away from the four mammaries on her belly.

Ch’kihha had been uneasy about bringing brooders and cubs into this dangerous situation. But Rha Kef Kh’tlau hadn’t wanted to show fear by splitting the pack. She had also insisted that the human children belonged in the care of Pack Rha, not some obscure Leaguer pack in the outmarches.

“Perhaps,” Mufii-kalaa ventured, “my argosy should take them. There are many Denzeuur there. We can pronounce their speech, and their children are usually comfortable with us.” Mufii and the Aksash’sk spoke in their respective dialects of Nocturne Trade Language, differing only in phonetics. “And if the goal is to teach them the ways of the League...”

“The goal,” interposed Kh’tlau, “is to teach them the Holy Code. Better done where the Code was born than among mere followers.” The Alpha’s taut, golden-skinned frame was adorned in the finest kilt and jewelry, befitting her status and offsetting her small size.

“Ahh, but the majesty of the Holy Code is such that it glows as warmly even far from the hearthworld. And seeing it in action—”

“Would expose them to alien ways. Confuse them. They must know the pure Code before they face the chaos it would tame.”

Mufii hesitated. “Of course. I unwisely assumed that, since generations of our kinds raised in the argosies have matured without such confusion, these human children would necessarily do the same. Thank you for... reminding me of the wisdom which springs from the hearthworld alone.”

“Still,” Sh’thai mused, “Mufii-kalaa can speak their language, and thus perhaps could reassure them.”

Kh’tlau peered skeptically at the Toraau but finally gestured approval. “Do it.”

“As always, we Leaguers are at your command,” Mufii replied before moving into the humans’ chamber, seeming quite eager to retreat. Ch’kihha admired the enthusiasm with which the negotiator followed orders.

The human children seemed to benefit from Mufii’s visit. Before long, some snuggled against the Toraau while others made those staccato pant-hoots they used for social bonding, baring their omnivorous teeth. Kh’tlau bore the aggravating sound, studying the children solicitously. “We should take them to Aksash now. Severed from their past, they will adjust better.”

“That would provoke a fiercer response,” Ch’kihha cautioned.

The Alpha growled in assent. “Yes. I fear them, Tak,” she confided, rubbing her side against his for comfort. “Undisciplined, violent creatures.”

Ch’kihha entwined his tongues tenderly with hers. Kef had fought her way from runt to Alpha through sheer force of will, and she never showed weakness to anyone save Ch’kihha and the brooders who’d raised her. He cherished her trust. “Our wars were fiercer,” he reminded her. “We are more implacable.”

“That is how we ended war! Once committed to peace, we never let go. These half-foragers lack our constancy. They end their peaces as easily as their wars.” She barked in contempt. “And what is their peace based upon? ‘Equality’—a random assignment of tasks with no regard for innate suitability. ‘Charity’—the free sharing of plenty with nothing in return. As unbalanced as taking by force! It must surely collapse back into savagery. And they may drag us down with them. Look how they’ve disrupted the League already!”

Ch’kihha shook once, convulsively. “Sapients’ blood on good Mercantilists’ claws... this is much to atone for. We dare not revert to what we were.”

Kh’tlau’s thick tail lashed against his, and Ch’kihha tried to wrap his own tail around it, soothing its convulsions. “We must bring them Holy Mercantilism,” his matriarch and mate went on. “The way of true balance can tame their souls, as it tamed ours. Can’t it?”

“Of course,” Ch’kihha reassured her, clasping her hands. “The Higher Powers command peace throughout the Universe. All will bow to their loving wisdom in time.”

Shannon Takeuchi, at the venerable age of eight standard years, had found herself accepted as leader and spokesperson by the younger children. So she strove not to cower before their fearsome captors or the perpetual dark. Still, it was a relief to cuddle up against the Denzy’s soft purple fur. “Why are you on their side, Mufii- san?” she asked, peering up at those big round eyes. “You’re nice. You should take us back home.”

“I’m on your side as well,” Mufii told her. “Take it from a Denzy...” and Mufii’s head flipped over to address a boy opposite her, “there’s more than one side to everything.”

The children laughed. “How do you do that and still see right-side-up?” seven-year-old Nishimori Hiro asked.

Mufii blinked. “The sky is up. My feet are down. It’s not so hard to keep things straight when you turn onto a new path. You just have to keep track of yourself. If you all do that, you’ll do fine in your new lives.”

“But we want our old lives!” Shannon said. “We don’t wanna live with the Axes.”

“They’re scary,” Hiro whined.

“I understand,” Mufii assured him. “Sometimes they can scare me too. They even scare themselves.” The children reacted with disbelief. “Yes, they do. That’s why they try very, very hard to be good and just and peaceful. They developed a wonderful Code for living in peace. They saw that fighting comes when one person has something another doesn’t have—when they’re out of balance. But if one takes what the other has and gives nothing back, the imbalance continues and causes more fighting. So the only way to stop fighting is to create balance: For everything you take, you give something back. For every wrong you do, you must do something to set it right. The people who lived by this Code instead of fighting found they were happier and richer, and so they convinced others, until eventually they’d all stopped fighting.”

“I don’t believe that,” one boy challenged.

“It’s true. They fought because their in stincts drove them to—but they didn’t really like it, because they also have an instinct for order and efficiency. War is messy and waste ful, so they were glad to give it up when they found a better way.

“Tell me—in the weeks you’ve been here, have any of them tried to hurt you?”

“No... I guess not,” Shannon admitted. “But the other ones did. Took us, fought our parents. My house burned down.”

“And who saved you from that fire? Who healed your burns?”

She looked away. “The Axes.”

“They only tried to help you. They feared your parents weren’t giving you the attention you need or helping you learn the right things. They tried to change things, but your parents refused. When they came to rescue you, your parents fought back and hurt them.” Mufii paused before continuing. “It... was your parents who started the fire.”

Some of the children were crying now. Shannon was confused, distraught. Mufii held her closer. “The brooders only want to help you. Give them a chance. Their whole job in life is to take care of children’s needs.”

“You mean,” Hiro dared, “they have to do what we say?”

Mufii waggled his whiskers. “I mean they’ll protect you and guide you and always be there for you. They’ll never ignore you or send you away because they have ‘more important’ things to do.

“And they’ll teach you the way of peace, so that when you grow up you can bring it to your people, so they’ll always treat each other right and not start any more fights.”

“You mean we can see our parents again?”

“In time. When you’re all grown up and they can’t boss you around anymore.”

Mufii stood, gingerly dislodging the children. “Let me bring Sh’thai, the head brooder, in here. You can start to get to know each other.”

“Hai,” Shannon finally conceded. “But could you get them to turn up the lights?”

“They’d like to, but it’d hurt their eyes. Mine, too.” Mufii stroked her hair soothingly. “Trust me. Once you get used to it, you’ll find the darkness very comforting.”

“Is there any real chance the Makarios boy is alive?” Madeleine asked Sato as they neared the geshuku where the diplomats were lodged.

“We can only hope. The local wood burns very hot. But we found Teruo- kun’s DNA in the ruins, and no clear traces outside. We’ve made repeated demands to know his status, but they won’t answer. I believe they killed the boy and are trying to cover for it.”

“There are many reasons for keeping silence,” Rabnaara observed. “Especially in a negotiation.”

“Negotiation!” The disbelieving echo came from Claire Takeuchi, the protestor from the embassy, whose presence in the geshuku’s entranceway was decidedly not a startling coincidence. “So you admit that you’re negotiating with the Axes. Using my daughter as a bargaining chip.”

The Denzeuur pulled back reflexively from her anger. “Rabnaara didn’t mean that,” Madeleine reassured her. “He was simply making an observation about Nocturne motivations. We have to understand how they think if we’re to find a solution to this crisis.”

“Oh, of course. Madeleine Kamakau’s legendary rapport with nonhuman cultures. No one relates to them better—so no one’s more likely to give in to their agendas.” She turned to Rabnaara. “Except maybe a scavenger who’s better at dodging and retreating than standing up for a cause.”

“Claire, you’re angry; that’s understandable. But it won’t do any good if you turn it against those who are here to help you.”

“‘Angry?’ I don’t know where my daughter is, what’s being done to her. Can’t you understand that?!”

“I understand being a mother, Claire.”

“How long ago? A hundred fifty years or more? Oh, I know all about your life story. My husband’s always telling Shannon about the exploits of his great-to-the-eighth granny.” Satisfaction shone in her eyes as Madeleine’s quiet poise slipped for the first time. “That’s right, Ambassador. We’re family. Your own flesh and blood is in Aksash claws. So what are you going to do about it?”

Madeleine refused to let her shock show. She’d learned too much discipline over decades of delicate interactions with unfathomable minds, whether children or xenosophonts. She wouldn’t give Claire the satisfaction of breaking that down.

No. Best not to think of her in that way. Claire was family, after all. And certainly a part of Madeleine’s soul was screaming for her to liberate her flesh and blood from danger. She wanted to reach out, to share those feelings with Claire and help her work through them.

But an audience was forming. These people were on edge, yearning to do something that might slake their rage. If she showed sympathy with Claire’s desire for action, it might be the pebble that started the avalanche. She had to play this like a professional.

“Right now, Claire,” she said with a calm that was pure façade, “I’m going to get a good night’s sleep. Then I’m going to talk to the Nocturnes and find a way to bring our children back peacefully. I’m sure the last thing any of us wants is more blood on our hands.”

That scored points with the crowd. They were genuinely ashamed of regressing to violence, even Claire. But her descendant recovered quickly. “Of course nobody wants that. The question is, how much will you sacrifice to avoid it?”

“Easy, Claire- kun,” Sato urged. “I promise you, we will get Shannon and the others back. We won’t surrender them, for any reason.”

“You can’t make that promise for the Commonwealth, Governor.”

“They’re only here to arbitrate. This is our world, and our crisis to solve. I’m watching out for your interests, you know that.” Sato turned her around with a gentle hand. “She’s right about one thing—you should try to get some sleep. All of you.” His sympathies may have lain with the crowd, but he had no desire to see more chaos erupt in his community.

But as Sato led Claire away, she turned back for a parting shot. “Go ahead and get a nice, cozy sleep, obaa-sama. Why not? This is just some abstract problem in interspecies relations to you. You’ve been living with aliens so long you’ve forgotten how to be a human being, let alone a mother!”

Once they were alone in the lift, Madeleine sagged against Rabnaara. “That was cruel of her to say,” he fluted, stroking her shoulders.

“She’s young, angry. And she loves her daughter desperately. To see me so stoic about...” She took a shuddering breath. “I can’t blame her for hating me.”

Rab nuzzled her in commiseration. After a moment, he met her eyes and asked, “Now that you know... does it change anything?”

“No. My family or anyone else’s, I’m here to get them back.” She recovered her balance as they exited the lift. “But it means Claire is family too. I should’ve handled it better.”

“I felt you were admirably controlled. You could hardly have anticipated this.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve had twenty-six children, starting more than two centuries ago. I’ve been estimated to have over four million direct living descendants.”

Rabnaara showed his admiration openly. “I pray the Mother and Father will let my line be so fecund.”

She grew wistful as they entered their suite. “But maybe it’s been too long since I was a mother. I keep meaning to go back to it... but the one time I tried, on Taijitu, it didn’t work out.” The rejuvenation treatments for her reproductive system had been the easy part. But in her eagerness for motherhood, she hadn’t chosen her husband well, and he’d proven unwilling to share her with her diplomatic obligations. “Maybe Claire’s right. Maybe I’ve grown too detached from family, from humanity. Forgotten how to care for my own.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Rabnaara as he knelt on his futon. “You left for your heirs’ sake, so they could finally take leadership of the clan as they deserved. And ever since, you’ve worked for the safety and enrichment of your extended family throughout human space.”

She smiled—his admiration of her as a maternal figure was endearing. “But at what cost?” Settling in against the slope of his warm, furry torso, she told him, “I miss it, Rab. I miss motherhood so much. But everybody’s always coming to me with another world to explore, another bridge to build, another fire to put out. I’m kept too busy being everyone else’s mother.”

Madeleine grew quiet, thinking. “But I made a beginner’s mistake tonight,” she admitted. “Calling the children ‘hostages.’ I was unthinkingly defining what they’d done as a terrorist act.”

“That’s how many see it.”

“But I should’ve known better than to judge. There are even human precedents, like the Ottoman Empire’s devshirme system.” She sighed. “I guess I’m as scared for the chil dren as anyone else is. And it’s affecting my judgment.”

“Don’t worry.” He stroked her hair with a knobbly palm. “You’re... not the only one whose reputation for tact suffered tonight.”

She smiled sympathetically. “You and Mufiikalaa... that was practically a brawl.”

“The Toraau have no love of family. A child is simply a replacement you order when an old cog in the machine goes away or dies. I wish they’d altered their genes more, because I’m ashamed to be related to them at all.”

“And here I thought you were so good at seeing every side of a question.”

Rabnaara met her gaze frankly. “Just because Denzeuur are good at sudden changes of direction doesn’t mean we abandon our basic goals. We’re circumspect with other species as a survival trait, but within our own kind, conflicts can be more overt.”

Madeleine nodded. The Denzeuur’s one asymmetry was between the legs: reproduction at one end, elimination at the other. Their ambivalent sense of bodily direction created confusion between the two functions and a set of sexual hangups that dwarfed even the human variety—and commensurately intense conflicts between the sexual mores of different Denzeuur societies. If anything, it was amazing that the Denzeuur worlds were able to coexist as Nocturne League clients at all. Perhaps the Code really worked as advertised.

“Luckily,” Rab went on, “since we never developed hunting instincts or weapons, we never redirected them into warfare.”

“No... you settled for espionage, sabotage, blackmail, poisonings....”

“I never said we were saints. Just that we don’t make as much of a mess as you predator types.”

“Armchair sociobiologist,” Madeleine teased. “There’s more to it than hunting, you know,” she went on more seriously. “What would you do if someone tried to take Dilaasi or little Kuuvaara from you?”

Rabnaara paused—not because the answer was elusive, but because it was so potent. “Anything I could.”

“The Aksash’sk badly miscalculated. Maybe it’s a symptom of their segregation of gender roles—the ones making and enforcing the decisions aren’t the ones rearing the children.”

“Isn’t that somewhat judgmental?”

“Frankly, Rab, I feel judgmental. I hate what they did. If I were still as young as Claire, I’d hate them for doing it.” She sighed. “I wish she could understand—I feel the same things she does. But this whole tragedy happened because passions got out of hand, because we let our mutual fear and tension drive us to strike out.

“There’s too much at stake to give into those tensions. I can’t let myself make any more mistakes.”

“Remarkable,” Rab fluted. “You can decide whether or not to be fallible? What an extraordinarily useful talent your evolution has blessed you with.”

She laughed and snuggled up against him. Life without children was lonely, but it meant a lot to have such a friend.

“An exchange of students is an admirable idea,” Madeleine told Arbiter Ch’kihha the next day. “Certainly we could institute such a program. But shouldn’t it be a balanced exchange, with both peoples enrolling students?”

Kh’tlau hissed in frustration. “You bleed our words of meaning! Your minds are like your eyes, seeing only the surface!” It was common enough for the Alpha to join the negotiations at this phase, but Madeleine couldn’t help thinking that it had gone more smoothly without her.

Ch’kihha issued an untranslated bark, causing his matriarch to subside—a reminder that, although she led the pack, diplomacy was his domain. “We have explained this,” the Arbiter said. “The exchange was balanced. The Daikokujin’s persistent violations demanded punitive response. The League’s sanction was at once appropriate and ultimately constructive. Rejecting their judgment can only bring imbalance and renewed danger.”

“The only thing we’re guilty of is trying to become self-sufficient,” Sato insisted. “They kept manufacturing new ‘regulations,’ reinterpreting their Code to keep us dependent.”

Kh’tlau hissed. “We do not twist sacred law on whims. You misunderstood it, complained when corrected, then willfully defied it.”

“Translation can be an inexact science,” Mufii-kalaa interjected. “However, there were clear instances of defiance on the Daikokujin’s part.”

“We resisted their efforts to impose import quotas, to force us to buy things we didn’t need. We’re too busy building a world to have much time for luxuries. But they pressure us to waste resources and effort on pointless trade.”

“Pointless!” Kh’tlau exclaimed. “You are intractable. No wonder you have brought us to the brink of war!”

“We have?”

“Governor.” Madeleine’s soft voice overwhelmed the shouts. The others quieted instantly. “It seems to me that commerce isn’t always about material needs. The League worlds could exchange information and manufacturing patterns by laser if it were that simple. Physical trade between the stars is more about the intangibles—the value of the rare and exotic, the skills and perspectives of individuals, or the power of trade itself as a form of cultural expression. In human cultures, like Imperial China, trade has often been the basis of diplomacy. The material profit or loss has been considered secondary to the maintenance of good relations.

“To the Aksash’sk, peace is secured by a bond of interdependence in much the same way. Like Earth’s Iroquoian peoples, they see the severing of trade ties as a severing of diplomatic ties, a breach of trust—practically a declaration of war.”

That gave Sato pause, but only for a moment. “I know my Earth history too, Ambassador. China’s trade was not just about ‘diplomatic ties,’ but about exacting tribute and submission to the Emperor. That’s what the Nocturnes want from us—acknowledgment of their dominance. Oh, the early argosies gave no hint of it. But once they got us comfortable, then the higher officials came in and started treating us like imperial subjects. There’s a deeper agenda at work here, and we can’t afford to overlook it.”

“The governor has misinterpreted,” said Mufii-kalaa. “The argosies have always faithfully represented the intentions of the League authorities and the homeworlds.” The negotiator seemed to be trying to assure the Aksash’sk as much as their Commonwealth counterparts. “The League is not an empire, but a system for cooperation between worlds. A stable relationship requires a commonly accepted set of guiding principles. Naturally we in the League always seek to clarify and promote those principles.”

“Tell me,” Rabnaara ventured, “have argosies in the past ever... confiscated the children of a client people?”

“Each client relationship requires unique solutions,” Mufii responded smoothly. “There is precedent for offering convicted criminals rehabilitation through our interstellar labor exchange.”

“But these aren’t criminals,” Sato protested. “They’re innocent children.”

“In this case,” said Ch’kihha, “the intent was to penalize the parents. And to protect the young from their... negative example.”

Sato barely held his anger in check. “What gives you the right to decide how our children should be raised?”

“Children belong only to the future. We have taken them under our care so they may bridge our cultures and create a better future. Few penalties bring such honor.”

Madeleine leaned forward to catch the arbiter’s gaze. “That will bring small comfort to parents whose children have been wrenched away without their consent. Speaking as a mother, I know—that pain will override all objective appraisals or abstract future gains. Even if your charges against the Daikokujin are proven, Arbiter... the price you’ve exacted is simply too high. It’s a loss we can never accept.”

“So should we have asked what price they would find convenient? If they could accept it, what would be the point?”

Rabnaara interposed. “This is not the forum for a debate on punitive philosophy. What matters is the well-being of the children. Should they be harmed to punish their families?”

“How often must we say,” Ch’kihha sighed, “that they are in the securest care?”

“No doubt the finest you are able to provide. But even your fine brooders lack the necessary experience with human children to guide their proper social and emotional development.”

“Then the Planetary Commonwealth should provide experts on human child care. We would welcome this.”

“These children have a right to their heritage,” Madeleine countered. “Daikoku is a branch of an ancient culture in which ancestral ties have profound significance.”

“They will be allowed to learn of their ancestral culture. But they will be raised in Nocturne culture, to provide a bridge between us. They will share in our identity, our heritage. Must culture be dictated by genetic lineage alone? If that were so,” Ch’kihha said, “then I would be a holy warrior against Mercantilism, for that is the precedent of my bloodline.”

“I have a proposal, Ambassador Kamakau,” Mufii-kalaa interjected. “We have among us one of humanity’s most experienced and celebrated providers of child care—yourself. Although you gained your experience in a more... informal way than, say, a Toraau caregiver, you no doubt acquired a wealth of practical knowledge over decades.” Madeleine forgave the slight. “And today you are a recognized expert in interspecies relations, renowned for your ability to empathize across species lines and build common ground.

“I suggest that you would make an ideal consultant for this project. If you join with us in the care of these children, you can ensure that they receive the proper socialization and care. You can help them develop the skills to negotiate across species and cultural lines. And you can keep Daikoku and the Commonwealth assured that the children are well off. You, Ambassador, could play a key role in building a lasting peace between our peoples.”

Madeleine found herself at a loss for words. Rabnaara came to her rescue. “We... request a recess to discuss this proposal.”

“You can’t be seriously considering this,” Sato said. “Letting them keep the children?”

“I am not about to accept that, Governor. But if I agree to consider the possibility, they might let me see the children, determine their well-being. This is how negotiation works— give a little, get a little.”

“You’re not used to dealing with Aksash. To them, business is a sublimation of hunting instincts. And once they take a bite out of their prey, they pursue it relentlessly. Give them a little and they’ll never back down from taking it all.”

“Are our instincts really so different? And have we never overcome them with reason?” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You know I have as much reason as you to want your children back. But making sure they’re safe and well right now is just as important.”

“Madeleine...” Rabnaara led her aside as Sato pondered. “What do you plan to say to them?”

“I’ll agree to consider the possibility, if they’ll let me see the children. It’ll be their chance to sell this devshirme project—they won’t pass that up. First rule of sales, get the customer in the door.”

“And you will get to see the children and reassure them that everything will be all right.”

The very thought of it brought relief. “That’s what matters most. All this maneuvering, interstellar politics... the children don’t care. They need someone to hold their hands and tell them they’ll be safe.”

“They need someone to mother them.”

“Exactly.”

Rabnaara made an intrigued sigh. “The one thing you miss the most ardently. And you could have it without losing the challenge of building interspecies bridges. How marvelously convenient.”

Madeleine frowned. “Rab, I’m not saying I’ll accept their offer. I just want to visit, reassure the children.”

“And once you get in the door, how hard will it be to resist the sale?” He whispered in her ear, whiskers tickling her face. “Could the children be in better hands than yours? Surely if the Daikokujin knew a human they could trust were looking after their children, it could put them at ease. They might even let you take responsibility for them—oh, with visitation rights, of course, but you could raise them and love them like your own. Be surrounded by two dozen raucous, needy children, always getting into trouble, never giving you a moment’s peace—what could be more heavenly?”

Madeleine laughed—more out of nervousness (and the tickling) than humor. Rab was right—that would be just like old times, simpler times, and she might just sell her soul to have it back. And if Rabnaara could see that, how much clearer would her feelings be in infrared?

“You’re right, Rab,” she sighed. “I’m not... I’m not a mother anymore. Someday, but not now.”

“Kamakau has forgotten what it means to be a mother!” Claire's words provoked an angry rumble of agreement from the cluster of parents around her. “She’s selling our children to preserve her precious good relations. Well, I’m not going to lie back for that!”

“But what’s the alternative?” a distraught father asked. “I killed a sophont, Claire. I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Nobody does, Hideaki. Nobody did before. But we still did what we had to when our children needed us.

“And you know what? They still need us. And what are we doing? Being patient. Talking it out. Sitting around placidly like good little civilized people while our babies cry out for us! Well, I for one am fed up with being civilized!” She could feel the crowd’s energy building, feeding her as she fed it. “I say we go in there and take our children back!”

Some of the faces were clearly reluctant, but the pressure of the crowd kept them silent. Only Hideaki spoke in dissent. “Isn’t there another way?”

“Don’t worry. They know now that we’re stronger. They’ll back down once they see how determined we are! That we won’t let anything stand in our way until we get our sons and daughters back home!”

Now the momentum was surging. Claire hardly had to incite them now; they were pulling her along with them, caught up in a tide of relentless action. It frightened Claire, but she embraced it—because the surge would carry her to her precious Shannon.

Madeleine had devised an alternative proposal: to consider the Nocturnes’ offer in principle, provided that Rabnaara could visit the children and ensure their well-being. As expected, the Aksash’sk balked, but it was merely the first round of haggling. Rabnaara sensed that Ch’kihha was willing to accept, but the arbiter, under pressure from Kh’tlau, insisted on concessions in return. Madeleine would bend where she could, but she considered most of the demands unacceptable.

Rabnaara’s outward placidity masked his concern as he watched the other negotiators haggle. Both the human and the Askash’sk were sincerely striving to hold their predatory natures in check, yet they could not break the impasse. Their instincts told them that combat with fellow predators was a life-or-death affair in which backing down could be disastrous. Their biology might drive them to war despite their firm belief that it must be avoided.

But as Mufii-kalaa blithely deflected all of Rabnaara’s proposed compromises—or rather, offered competing compromises that gave greater advantage to the League—the tension in Rabnaara’s own neck reminded him that conflict was not the unique province of meat-eaters. He could barely stand being in the same room with the sexless Toraau—let alone other Denzeuur offshoots such as the Riitha’el, who had bred their females into subservient animals, or the Shaakrethal, who pretended to asexuality and ostracized anyone whose sex became publicly known. Perhaps he had no business being judgmental. The Nocturne League had done a remarkable job maintaining peaceful trade relations for over a millennium. What was their secret? Had Taarzerek kept itself isolated too long? Was his own failure to find a resolution a consequence of some intrinsic xenophobia within his own beloved people?

An angry outburst from Kh’tlau shook Rabnaara from his reverie. “This is futile! You humans have no protocols, no hierarchies, just unstructured talk! And you spread your disorder to the League. Tensions between worlds that traded peacefully for centuries. Peoples once well behaved now drawing punitive measures. Never has the Nocturne League seen a more turbulent time!”

Rabnaara craned his neck forward, fascinated. “Pardon me... only since the human contact?”

“An influx of new ideas is bound to be disruptive,” Mufii-kalaa observed. “Perhaps you should be more careful as you race to seek out new life.” An oddly direct criticism. A Denzeuur would rarely make an open strike—unless it was a diversion from something more important.

Before Rabnaara could ponder it further, a subordinate Aksash’sk male burst in, barking agitatedly. The League party moved to meet him, and they conferred too softly to hear. Kh’tlau snarled, threw a poisoned glance at Madeleine, and dashed out, her packmates close behind. Mufii remained to interpret. “I fear we must recess. A group of Daikokujin has stormed the Embassy. It would do much to restore good faith if you could help us stop them.”

Shannon wasn’t scared of the Axe-ashes anymore. Not the little ones, anyway. Kids were pretty much kids all over. And the big mommy ones weren’t so bad, with their velveteen fur and no claws and all... but mommies were always intimidating. In a good way, though, she guessed. The way Sh’thai watched over her and the other kids as they played together made her feel safe, like her own mommy had before.

She was Sara the Triceratops, and an Axeash boy was a wily T. rex hunting her, barking playful taunts Shannon couldn’t understand. She’d picked up a few Nocturne words, but not enough for conversation yet. But the game was pretty simple, though the Axe-ashes seemed puzzled about why she was sticking her fingers out from her forehead.

But then there was a lot of noise, and the door broke in, and it was confusing after that, but she saw humans! But they were fighting, like that night with the fire, and the other kids were running, hiding behind Sh’thai and the other brooders. But some were caught in the middle and couldn’t get to safety.

Some new Axe-ashes ran in, led by an angry one in a pretty kilt and jewels. The dressed-up one batted some humans aside, not caring if her fancy clothes got messy. Shannon’s mom always complained when she acted like that. But then the dressy one grabbed little Sandip and barked loudly, holding her claws near his throat. He cried, but the Axe didn’t care.

Her T. rex friend yanked her to the ground behind him. It hurt, but she knew he was trying to protect her. Then she saw what was charging toward them—the vivid bronze hair, the big, strong body—it was Mommy!

And Mommy had a look in her eyes like Shannon had never seen before, and she had a wiresaw, its thin glowing blade poised over her head. And she started to swing it down at the T. rex boy. Shannon cried out and threw herself in front of him, and...

“STOP!”

Everyone froze, shocked into silence.

Madeleine Kamakau had cried out in rage.

Even those few who didn’t know her reputation were stunned. It was as if an ancient, sleeping power had been unleashed.

“How dare you?” Madeleine demanded, her voice low again but far from gentle. She strode up to Claire Takeuchi and yanked the wiresaw from her unresisting hand. “Bringing weapons into a nursery. Putting your own children at risk.”

She whirled on Kh’tlau. “And you. Let him go this instant.” Even before her implants could translate the words, the Alpha’s arms fell nervelessly to her sides, and Sandip ran to his parents. “How could you? Hiding behind children. Using them as pawns.”

“You tell ’em!” a human called out hesitantly, seeking to recover some of his indignant confidence. “They started this.” Others chimed in. “That’s right!” “They killed Teruo Makarios!”

“Enough.” Madeleine’s gaze scalded them, not with fury but with overwhelming disappointment. They bowed their heads like misbehaving juveniles. “They started it, so you finish it, is that it? They kill one of your children, so you get to kill their children, and that makes it right?” She took a breath, and continued in a more controlled tone, capturing their gazes. “Feels so easy, doesn’t it? A nice quick fix, an eye for an eye, balance the ledger. Simple, seductive.

“But what about the other side? What stops them from feeling the same, doing the same right back? And then your children retaliate against their children, and back and forth and back and forth....” She shook her head, crying freely. “You may as well murder your own babies and cut out the middleman!”

Claire let out a sob and fell to her knees as the realization of what she’d almost done sank in. Madeleine wanted to rush to her side, but sometimes a mother just had to let a child live with her pain. “Both our peoples are supposed to have learned this by now,” she went on. “How could we let ourselves forget so easily?”

She looked around, taking it all in, the whole crisis in microcosm. “This has gone on long enough,” she realized. It was time to go to the heart of the matter.

Madeleine’s eyes locked on Sh’thai, recognizing a kindred spirit. “Are you the head brooder?” she asked in Denzeuur Nocturne.

“I am. Rha Fith Sh’thai. And so are you, it seems.”

“Madeleine Kamakau. I was sent here to resolve this matter. But this is my first real chance to do so. Let the children go, Sh’thai.”

“I cannot. This is a matter of League policy, interstellar relations.... It is not my responsibility.”

“Isn’t it? Look at what just happened here.” She gestured to Shannon, to Sandip. “Look at whom those policies and relations have put in danger. This is where it all begins, Sh’thai. All the rest—commerce, politics, diplomacy— they’re merely things that we do to try to make a better future for our children. How can we put them above the children themselves?”

She clasped the brooder’s hand with her own. “We mothers have always been the ones who suffer when our precious babies are sent out to die. But we have the power to do something about it. Because it’s not governments and armies, churches and embassies that really make history—it’s families. The characters of the people who lead those institutions, the values that guide them and define the civilizations they build, they’re all shaped in childhood. Everything else is an aftereffect—family is where it all begins.

“Everything that happens to people, Sh’thai, is a mother’s responsibility. Whether our civilizations go to war is up to us, right here, right now. After all... what gives anyone else the right to make that decision for our babies?”

The two mothers stood eye to eye for a time. At last Sh’thai turned. “Children! Go with your parents. I will miss you, but please go home.”

“No!” Kh’tlau cried. “This is a state matter!”

“Quiet!” Sh’thai cuffed her, once. It was hardly enough to sting, but the Alpha was stunned. “You would lecture your teacher? The human children are in my care. That makes it my decision, by law and custom. And it makes them effectively your packmates. Do you wish to offer an excuse for threatening your own brother’s life?”

Kh’tlau was chastened. “But Mater,” she pleaded. “They are a threat to our order.”

“Then deal with them, as any good Mercantilist would.”

“We tried! But they were unruly and had to face discipline!”

“A discipline poorly chosen. It intrudes upon my purview, and I declare it void. Find another.”

Ch’kihha stepped forward, placing a hand on his Alpha’s shoulder. “Kef... let it go. The Code is meant to prevent conflict, not create excuses for it. Somehow the laws have failed us here.”

Kh’tlau glared at him in astonishment. “We cannot submit to them!”

“We submit to Sh’thai. And to practicality. All things must be negotiable if peace is to be won.”

Kh’tlau hissed, but her posture was acquiescent. “The Council will not approve.”

“That’s the Council’s business,” Sh’thai said. “I will not see the humans pulled apart again.”

The Alpha slunk off, frustrated but chastened. Ch’kihha followed, seeking to comfort her. They swept by Sato, ignoring him as he called out, “Teruo- kun? Has anyone seen Teruo Makarios?”

The children’s replies were uniformly negative. “Are you sure?” He came up to Sh’thai. “You must tell me. Where is Teruo Makarios?”

The brooder was slow to answer. “The boy... died in the fire,” she finally confessed. “A terrible loss. At least his parents were spared the grief of outliving him.”

Sato was somber. “I never really expected it, I suppose. But I had to hope.”

Madeleine shared his grief; but her gaze fell on Claire, who had engulfed Shannon in her arms, begging for forgiveness. Madeleine’s approach drew her attention from her daughter’s reassurances. “I was a fool,” she rasped.

Madeleine knelt and touched her shoulder. “So was I. You were right... I’ve been thinking too much like a diplomat instead of a mother. I...” She blushed. “The world I grew up in is gone, and I don’t fit in anywhere else. I figured if I was going to feel like an alien anyway, it might as well be among aliens. Maybe I’ve lost touch with my humanity.”

“No... no, you’re a better mother than I could ever be. I caused all this,” she sobbed. “I incited the crowd, I almost... almost...”

Madeleine didn’t let her finish. “You were in pain. And I treated you like a, a rabble-rousing politician instead of a fellow mother. Instead of family.”

Shannon looked at her. “Are you my obaasan Madeleine?”

“Yes,” Madeleine smiled tearfully. “Yes, I am.”

“Don’t be sad. I’m okay now. And we were okay before. We were playing dinosaurs, and learning Nocturne, and it was scary at first but it was kinda fun. Here.” Noticing that the flower in Madeleine’s hair was coming loose, Shannon pushed it back into place. Madeleine let the tears come and wrapped both her descendants in her arms.

Rabnaara watched Madeleine’s family reunion with a tender sigh, but his whiskers drooped as Mufii-kalaa approached. “The hearthworld will not accept this easily,” the Toraau told him.

“You will convince them,” the Taarzeuur said.

“Indeed. Should I?”

“You should,” Rabnaara went on in their shared ancestral tongue. “For certain truths are best kept hidden.”

“Such as?”

“It’s truly astonishing,” Rab said, “that cultures as different as Aksash, the disparate Denzeuur worlds, and the rest could all coexist smoothly under a single, rigid set of economic regulations.”

“The Code is unequalled in its wisdom.”

“A single wisdom, for all worlds? And you must admit, it does seem much less effective these days.”

“Yes, since the human contact.”

“Since the League gained warp cages,” Rab added. “Before, a client world would see a League argosy only every decade or two. The different populations rarely met one another. Contact was mostly mediated through the League.

“And the merchants themselves spent their lives hurtling between stars, isolated by distance and time dilation from the cultures whose goods they traded in. The sharing of information was gradual, tempered by time and distance, so the worlds could absorb, adapt, or ignore new ideas as they saw fit.

“But then came warp cages. Suddenly worlds were weeks apart instead of decades. Separate cultures were thrown into direct contact. Officials from the hearthworld could visit the client worlds and see the Code in action.

“But to their shock, they found that each world interpreted the rules to suit its own culture. Orthodoxy was threatened. And the client worlds were increasingly undergoing ideological collisions and disruptive relations.”

“But the same diversity existed before. Clearly the Code must have been able to regulate it.”

“Except the defenders of orthodoxy were back on Aksash, expecting the Leaguers to pass on their doctrines unchanged. But the Leaguers were living in their own worlds at their own pace. The rules of commerce were not a divine abstraction to them, but a pragmatic reality.

“Let us speak plainly for once. The League reinterpreted the Code for each world, didn’t it? That’s why the Daikokujin feel the rules have been changed. First the argosies came and adapted the rules to local culture, as they had always done. Then the homeworlders came in, preaching a conflicting orthodoxy, leading to the mutual perception of bad faith. On how many other worlds has this happened?”

Mufii-kalaa’s guard finally dropped. “The hearthworld Aksash’sk have been taken aback by the disorder, responding with a stricter enforcement of orthodoxy.” The Toraau’s whiskers twitched bitterly. “For centuries, the League enabled coexistence at a comfortable, mutually profitable remove. Now the hearthworld seeks to turn our smooth-running trade network into a regulated state. Our operations and our autonomy have been compromised enough as it is.” Mufii met Rabnaara’s gaze intently. “If the truth were revealed, the hearthworld would brand us traitors, maybe disband the League. Our whole way of life would be destroyed.”

“Then you have an incentive to convince them to accept this outcome. As long as that happens, I see no reason why this information should become known.”

“And how should I convince them?”

“If you are any sort of salesperson, you already have some ideas. Besides, your brooder Sh’thai has managed to salvage something for them. Haven’t you, Sh’thai?”

The lurking brooder came forward openly, looking as sheepish as a wolf could manage. “Yes, I know your classical language,” she admitted to Mufii’s stare. “In a lifetime of teaching, I’ve learned a few things. Though apparently not stealth.

“Do not worry about your precious League secret. My allegiance is to the next generation, not the one in power.”

“Where is Teruo Makarios?” Rabnaara asked.

She stared for a time, but she made no attempt at denial. “He was on the brink of death. Our nanotes have kept him alive, but they have needed time to adapt to his anatomy. The healing is slow. How did you know?”

“No good negotiator surrenders everything she holds. But why did you conceal his survival?”

“To spare the other young from worry and fear at his condition. Because they did not know, I saw an opportunity—a way my pack could still achieve its purpose to build a bridge between our cultures.

“But more... it was a brooder’s sentiment. Every day I have kept vigil at his side, watching him fight for life. He is strong and brave, and I could not bear to lose him. Besides, he has no one left alive to love him as I do. Does he?”

Rabnaara cast a long look at Madeleine, who still clutched her descendants close to her. “No,” he answered wistfully. “There is one who would cherish the opportunity... but she has other duties. We need people of wisdom and compassion to preserve the peace in these tenuous times.”

“You surprise me,” Mufii said. “Didn’t you say that human children must be raised by human caregivers and communities? This boy will not even have other children of his kind.”

“It is... not an ideal situation,” he breathed, eyes still on Madeleine. “But ideals are never fully realized. I will arrange what assistance I can, Sh’thai, to help you raise a healthy human child without revealing his presence.” His whiskers twitched unhappily. “It is a risky experiment to subject a lonely child to.” And Madeleine will never forgive me if she learns what I have done. “But I am not a predator, believing I can pounce on the Universe and wrestle it into obedience. We scavengers must make the best of what little it grants us.”

Mufii appraised him. “You may be a true Denzeuur after all.”

“More than you will ever be.” Rabnaara eyed his counterpart more coolly. “Make sure the boy is tended well.”

“Of course. Our common future may ride upon him.”

He stared at Madeleine until her gaze rose to his, forcing him to look away. He couldn’t meet her eyes... not yet. “His future is just as important,” he told Mufii. “Never forget that.”

That big Axe is there every day, watching me from the dark. She talks to me, even though I don’t answer. She says she wants me to get well. But I saw what they did. People said they were bad, and Mom and Dad told me not to listen. But then they killed Mom and Dad.

Maybe they only want me to get well so I can run and they can hunt me down and kill me. So I pretend I’m still sick. I pretend so well it even fools the machines.

But what if the Axe really does want to help? Sometimes she sounds so nice, even with the barking. But I saw what happened when people trusted them. I just want them to leave me alone.

But I can’t stand being alone! I’m lost and afraid and I need... someone....

Maybe I should try to trust them. But I don’t know if I can.

The Shallowest Waves

Thoraiya Dyer & Alvaro Zinos-Amaro | 7412 words

“... Jupiter, gradually edging away from the land, and away from the dry shore, placed his imposter’s hooves in the shallowest waves, then advanced out further, and soon he was bearing the spoils of his victory out in midocean.”

—Ovid, Metamorphoses

Clouds catfight over the isolated island, hissing lightning and pissing rain.

Distantly, on a horizon only made visible by a silver glimmer on the night-time sea, a small cloud clearing allows the moonlight through, and Charlotte hopes it’s a sign, even as she taps her earpiece to turn the wide balcony door from window into smartscreen. She taps again to answer the incoming call.

“The connection is weak,” Prisca’s secretary says, furrowing the pretty brow that flickers, twice life size, on Charlotte’s balcony door. He scans his own screen for a network with stronger signal. “Packet loss 27 percent. The best I can do.”

“There’s a storm,” Charlotte answers. She bites her lip to keep from telling him there are no atmospheric storms on Europa. Only quiet ice. What lies below is the question, though. The great mystery unsolved by the NASA launches of 2016 and 2021.

But he’s only an assistant. It’s not his imagination she needs to stir.

Then Prisca Dale’s age-lined face balloons in the glass, and Charlotte’s throat constricts. A tendon in the back of her neck twitches. Her toes squirm, crushed into high heels which won’t be seen on screen but make Charlotte feel more commanding.

“So you’re the one,” Prisca says evenly, not pausing for niceties, “who’s been stealing so many of my best satellite navigator’s precious outside-work hours.”

“Deputy Director Dale.”

“What is this foolishness about Europa when the Norwegian Space Center barely has funds to maintain Galileo? To monitor the ionosphere? To keep our oil platforms, helicopter pilots and Barents Sea navigators operational? Our ground stations are falling into disrepair. Our staff endure pay cut after pay cut. And just look at this dreadful connection!”

“Predicting the storm,” Charlotte says wryly, “doesn’t mean you can stop it.”

“I hear you have icebergs in Bergen Port these days.”

“The gulf stream was shut down by global warming as you warned it would be, Deputy Director. Though we are not very much warmer here on Lysøen.”

“A furniture designer who understands our problems,” Prisca says, folding her bony hands on the desk and giving a tight nod of acknowledgement. “But Ågesine could not convince me to abandon our drowning fishermen for the sake of Jupiter’s moons, and neither can you.”

Charlotte keeps her expression pleasantly neutral. If Prisca was so sure that she, Charlotte, had nothing interesting to say, the meeting would never have been scheduled.

This is her chance. She must be confident. She must be compelling.

An anguished cry from the bedroom behind drives her practiced arguments out of her head.

“What was that?” Prisca asks.

“It’s my son,” Charlotte says. “He’s five years old.”

She listens. Hesitates. Feels hopeful. He’s having nightmares.

He’ll go back to sleep.

But the cry comes again, morphing into ter rified sobbing, and there’s nobody in the house on the cliff over the sea but Charlotte and Kristian. Not since they buried her par ents in the mossy family plot under the spruces and wych elms.

“Is he afraid of thunder?” Prisca asks.

He’s afraid of everything, Charlotte doesn’t say.

Kristian calls desperately for his mother to come. He’s waiting. The Deputy Director is waiting. Waiting for Charlotte’s mouth to open, waiting for the dizzying potential advancements to be gained from Europan ocean samplers to fall out, while the presumed husband tends to the terrified child.

“I find that I agree with you, Deputy Director,” Charlotte says, her heart sinking. “The fishermen should come first. Excuse me. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

She turns elegantly, gliding away down the corridor, thinking: The old woman did get to see the glamorous shoes, after all.

She kicks them off outside the boy’s bedroom. Barefoot, sinking slightly into his plush carpet, she crosses to the nightstand and flicks on the light. Stuffed animals litter the floor; he often has arguments with them, flinging them out into the cold as punishment.

Now, he turns his tear-streaked face to her, relief widening his sky-blue eyes even as the pupils contract with the light.

“Mamma.”

“I’m here.”

She pulls him over the railing of the bunk Her lower back creaks. He’s heavier every day

“I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Vipers in my bed.”

“There aren’t any vipers in your bed.” Nor many on the island, either, since the two-year storm that kept them in hibernation far longer than was normal. Ninety percent of the liveborn young died quietly in their sleep, not having accrued enough energy to avoid starvation.

“Choking me.”

“Vipers don’t choke people, Kris. They don’t like people. If they feel you coming they just slither away.”

“Can you sleep in my bed?”

“No. Mamma’s working.”

“Can you leave the light on?”

“It wastes electricity.”

But she leaves the light on. Waits till his eyes shut. Closes his bedroom door behind her Carries an armful of his toys down the corri dor, where the balcony door is blank, as she knew it would be.

Prisca Dale is gone.

“Mamma’s working,” Charlotte says again to herself, quietly and furiously, freeing one hand to drag the glass panel back.

Wind and rain blast her, tossing her hair and numbing her toes. She crosses the slate tiles, touches the balustrade with her hip and flings one of Kristian’s toys into the storm.

Then another.

And another.

Soon, she realizes she is screaming with each throw. No. Her arms are empty. She’s still screaming, and there’s nothing left to throw. Years of working with Ågesine on the design of the seeds, the launcher, the payload, the adaptation of printed nanomaterials developed for futuristic furniture and unobtrusive smartscreens into miniature motors and radiation-absorbing coatings, all wasted; they agreed that the Norwegian Space Center was their best shot. Ågesine works for them, can vouch for Charlotte in the absence of her formal credentials.

Mamma’s working.

Charlotte doesn’t regret walking away from the nightclub six years ago not knowing the name of the man who’d gifted her with such joyous release; such divine physical satisfaction she still relives it in her dreams, sometimes. She could find out who he was, if she wanted to, but she doesn’t really care; doesn’t want to live on the mainland. The island is an inspiring place to work with its dramatic landscapes and complex, fascinating ecosystems. That doesn’t mean she can’t take advantage of her occasional big-city forays.

No, she doesn’t regret keeping Kris, though she wishes her parents were still around. Not just because she misses them and could use the quality childcare, but because she wants to tell them she understands, now.

I understand why you sent me away to school. It wasn’t because you didn’t love me. It’s just that you had things to do before you died.

Charlotte’s father, descended from a famous violinist, had composed for the Royal Concertgebouw after the orchestra abandoned poor, drowned Amsterdam for the Vaalserberg. Her mother, an engineer, had overseen the widening of the tunnel through the mountains between Oslo and Bergen to accommodate a maglev rail tube.

You died thinking I was only fit for sculpting coffee tables. I will send the seeds to Europa.

The storm flings sleet in Charlotte’s face. She’s forced a step back. Then another. And another. But she hardly notices that she’s gone back inside and closed the balcony door again; she’s forgotten the deputy director’s skepticism, Kristian’s shrieks and the toys, tossed vengefully over cliffs where vipers sunbathe in the too-short summer.

Mamma’s working.

The list of other places to try to get funding is already running through her head.

Jurek swims in battery acid.

Each stroke of his thin, lean body sends him plunging deeper into Europa’s largest suboceanic sulphuric acid pool, just two kilometers east of the planet’s most aggressive underwater vent. Black clouds of sulfide minerals in various stages of dissolution and superheated magma eddies drift at the edge of his vision.

“Eyes on the prize, Jurek.”

The voice, which belongs to someone at station control on the sub Talos, three hundred meters above Jurek, gently mocks one of his mantras. Through the com static in his helmet Jurek can’t tell exactly who is being a wiseass, but it doesn’t matter. “Don’t you know it,” he says.

Steering clear of the vent’s floating ejecta, Jurek follows the infrared spectroscopic rainbow on his nano-lenses and targets the poison area. The ice on Europa’s crust, barraged by solar winds and high-energy particles from Jupiter’s radiation belt, is constantly breaking down into hydrogen peroxide and oxygen, which seep through to the chilly globegirdling ocean beneath it, combining with sulphur compounds to form floating pockets of sulphuric acid like this charmer. Jurek’s arms piston, and his synchronized legs coil like a sleek black fluke as he surges closer to his target. He breathes once every two minutes. The bodymods are working as advertised, though Jurek won’t be winning any beauty contests soon.

“About two hundred meters to your right,” Talos says.

“I see it.”

He picks up the pace.

That’s when Jurek’s earmite goes into overdrive, rattling off safety numbers he has no interest in hearing. The chemicals singing of limitless power in his bloodstream and in his ears aren’t loud enough to drown out the earmite’s drone. But like Jurek’s conscience, which he had hoped his stay on Europa would silence, the earmite cannot be turned off, not without severe consequences. It’s part of the bargain Jurek made when he signed up— begged, really—to be one of the first Europan divers. All three Europan research hubs are beholden to the exo-corps, and the exo-corps are beholden to the Prefecture politicians, and the politicians are beholden to the voters, and the voters are beholden to an absurd notion of safety first. But safety first isn’t what got humans off Earth, that storm-besotted grave some still call a cradle, nearly a century ago. Safety first didn’t build permanent colonies on the Moon and Mars. Safety first didn’t establish outposts on Ganymede, Titan, Enceladus, and Europa.

Heart rate excessive, the mite warns. Blood pressure undesirable. Adrenaline at unsafe levels.

Jurek smiles. He has disabled safety immobilization protocols, so his skin-suit won’t be able to seize up and lock him down, and he has reprogrammed the suit’s relays to transmit pre-recorded bio-signals to the sub, so the Talos will think he’s within safety ranges.

Undesirable?

Unsafe?

He pushes harder.

Each stroke doesn’t so much propel him through the acid water as sleekly repel it from him in all directions simultaneously. Not for the first time Jurek wishes there was some substance like his diving suit’s drag-reducing, superhydrophobic coating that could do the same for all the tangles of his life. Magically create clearings through the morass of respon sibilities and guilt—like the anxiety dreams he brought with him all the way from Mars—and let him just glide through. Even now he can still see his mom’s sallow, bony face in his mind’s eye, smiling wanly behind the glass wall that is Jurek’s memory, her porcelain tears at his departure perfectly preserved, in his imagination, by the millions of kilometers of vacuum between them. He remembers the day he said goodbye with excruciating detail. Every nuance of Eleonore’s appearance, the feeling of her frail arms wrapped around his body, trying to hold on to him. But he left her there, in a second-rate Mars center for the neu rologically impaired—a resting abode, as they call them—to live out her final, tottering, con fused days alone.

To die alone.

The nanos buzz in Jurek’s temples, the elec tric tingle of a sight confirmed.

“Got it.”

At the edge of the acid pool drifts a long, flat fragment of basalt-like rock, mottled with concentric grey splotches.

Jurek reaches out and pulls it in with both arms.

His gloved hands transmit the rock’s warmth.

“Looks like a piece of vent debris,” he speculates aloud, for the sub’s benefit. “Running surface analysis now.”

Which amounts to passing his wrist back and forth over the rock, like a magician. The embedded scanner does its thing and transmits its data to the Talos.

Jurek closes his eyes, floating still in the abyssal depths. He’s been here before, poised on the brink of revelation, too many times. Keep your hopes down, like an anchor. Remnants of once-living bacteria aren’t hard to find in the Europan oceans. The sub’s waterdrones have fished out a dozen samples. Jurek himself has snagged at least four; Ayisha three or four more; Ashmadell one or two. But all of these samples turned out to be the remote descendants of human contaminants, extremophiles carried to Europa by early seed probes. And as hardy as these extremophiles were, Europa’s toxic waters, freezing surface temperatures and lethal radiation levels eventually killed them.

Native Europan bacteria—preferably living—that’s another story. One for Jurek to tell.

“DNA readings confirmed,” Talos says. “Grab it and head back.”

Jurek doesn’t ask for more information.

“Sorry,” Talos volunteers, as if to remove any doubt. “Another dead extremophile colony descended from Earth.”

Jurek wonders if they’re going about this all wrong. Humans have drilled dozens of holes through the ten kilometers of Europa’s outer icy mantle during the last two decades here, letting in sunlight, radiation, who knows what else. What if they’re scaring away—or killing—the very thing they’re trying to find?

Another dead colony, Jurek thinks. Another dead end.

Even out here, he’s worthless. He couldn’t help his mom, and now he can’t help himself.

As he floats back up to the sub, Jurek dims his nano-lenses, preferring to swim through shadows. More than once, as he slips through tenebrous regions, he fantasizes that something will reach out from the darkness and pull him into it. By the time he reaches the Talos’ decon hatch, he realizes that something already has.

The ferry terminal is cool, modern—the color of broken shells on a grey beach.

From the open upper deck where the deckhands toss ropes and extrude boarding ramps, Charlotte easily spots both Ågesine and her excitable niece, Neta. Both are swathed in watermelon-pink, the latter swinging alarmingly from the silver-painted handrail while her dowdy, dark-haired mother makes gestures of admonishment.

Kristian is a warm, dark-coated shape at Charlotte’s side, his little mitten in hers, round face framed by black woolen hat and scarf. As always, he watches the gulls floating over the boat’s swiftly settling bow-wave, worried about them going hungry if they fail to catch a fish.

Nobody worries about the fish.

“Look,” Charlotte says, pointing. “Ågesine is waiting for us.”

Kristian sighs dramatically.

“But Mamma. Neta picks me up.”

“She likes you.”

“She lifts me up and squeezes me. She calls me little and cute.”

Charlotte bites her lip to keep from laughing.

“But you are little and cute.”

His chin goes to his chest, and he looks crossly up at her through his white-blond, windblown fringe.

“I don’t want to be little and cute. I want to be a grown-up, like you.”

“Hello!” Ågesine cries, holding her arms out excitedly, and Charlotte drags Kristian across the ramp. Ågesine hugs Charlotte and pecks both cheeks but only gives Kris a wink and a captain’s salute. Ågesine respects the fact that Kris would rather play computer games with her while a hundred kilometers apart than get one of the piggyback rides that make Neta screech with glee.

“Hello, Neta,” Kristian says warily to the little girl. He’s a head shorter than she is. They’re the same age.

“Hello Kristian,” Neta cries, lifting him up, hugging and squeezing. “You are so little and cute!”

“Put me down, please,” he says politely.

“Hello, Charlotte,” says Ågesine’s sister. Charlotte can never remember her name. She only has room in her brain for so many faces. It’s more important that she remember the name Gils Gitleff, project acquisitions manager at Kongsberg Defense & Aerospace, for example.

“Hello,” she says, hesitating awkwardly, until Ågesine rescues her.

“Mai’s going to take the kids to a cafe for lunch. Neta is really excited.”

“Yeah!” Neta says.

“Kristian will be, too,” Charlotte says, shooting him a glance that says, You’d better be. “There aren’t any cafes on the island. Only Mamma’s cooking. What a lovely treat.”

“We’ll see you later in the evening,” Ågesine tells her sister, taking Kristian’s toyand spareclothing-laden backpack from Charlotte’s shoulder and passing it to Mai. “Hopefully with a suitcase full of cash.”

“Sounds heavy,” Mai says, smiling.

“The suitcase will be strictly proverbial,” Charlotte says.

“Neta, put him down!” Mai shouts, and Ågesine links her arm with Charlotte’s, judging it an opportune moment to slip away.

Charlotte glances back. She hasn’t given her son a kiss goodbye. Then again, she doesn’t want him to start crying. It’s only one day. KDA has its new company headquarters in an old silver mine under the mountain near Kongsberg. There, the tech wizards can control data transmissions, avoid being seen by the very satellites they manufacture, and maintain the most secure servers in the world.

To get there, Ågesine and Charlotte will travel on the train whose record-breaking tunnel Charlotte’s mother helped to build.

“I like the old train better,” Ågesine mutters as they buckle up and stretch out their legs in the carriage. “The amazing views of the fjords. All those waterfalls.”

“Seven hours? No, thanks.”

“You can be blasé about it. You live on that island. You have your own forests and waterfalls.”

“I am lucky.”

Charlotte wouldn’t have stumbled on her design for the Europa experiment if not for the wild beauty surrounding her. At least, if not for the sharp seed-awns that penetrate her socks and, occasionally, her skin. Some of them have corkscrew-shaped tails designed to twist into the soil as they pass through daynight cycles of higher and lower humidity. Others have rows of backward-pointing hairs to prevent removal.

“Do you want an orange?” Ågesine offers.

“I don’t like them.”

“I know. I just like watching you make that face.”

Moments before the train enters the world’s longest rail tunnel, Charlotte’s earpiece vibrates. It’s Mai.

“Hello, Mai?” she subvocalizes. “You’ll have to be quick, we’re about to go into the dead zone. Is something wrong?”

“One minute he was eating his lunch,” Mai says, her voice already crackling with the imminent interference, “the next minute he was crying and saying something about vipers choking him. Do you want to turn around? Should I take him to a first aid booth for—”

“No,” Charlotte snaps. All the anger she has suppressed, the frustration over her ruined interview with Prisca Dale, floods back through her. “I don’t want to turn around. You don’t need to take him anywhere. Tell him he’s being ridiculous. Tell him there are no—”

And then the train plunges into the tunnel. The connection is broken.

“Is everything alright?” Ågesine asks.

You don’t understand, Charlotte doesn’t say.

She takes a deep breath. Releases it.

“I’m so sorry I messed up with Prisca.”

“Charlotte! I told you not to worry about it! She never could see past the end of her own nose.”

“But what if KDA doesn’t go for it, either? The Americans spent billions on their Europa probes with nothing to show for it. All their careful calculations to find the optimal landing site. Then one lander gets fried. The other one malfunctions and doesn’t release its eyes. No characterization of the surface composition, no measuring the thickness of the ice shell. No magnetic sounding of the hidden ocean.”

“They were impatient,” Ågesine says, one of her common refrains. She’s the most patient woman Charlotte knows. She has no children because she’s waiting for Europa to be colonized. Ågesine thinks there’s no point having meaningful relationships on Earth when she plans to leave the planet. The money she saves, she keeps for telomere extensions so she can live long enough to see her plans through.

Charlotte puts her earpiece into her pocket. There’s no point wearing it here. Emergency niches in the tunnel have communications wiring, but there’ll be none of that at KDA HQ.

“How old is Gils Gitleff?” she asks.

“Old enough to see through bullshit,” Ågesine answers. “Young enough to want to touch the stars.”

The hub’s break room is lit harshly, as though the only way to relax from mission work is to down caffeine and sit under the glare of a thousand artificial suns. That’s what you get for trusting exo-corps to design your facilities, Jurek thinks. Like a virus, they model everything on themselves.

“That was some very impressive diving down there. Some might say too impressive.”

As Ayisha crosses the room toward him, Jurek feels her eyes bearing down on his face like some kind of probe. He imagines that his pockmarks are the impact craters of past emotions, his stubble and grafts strata of dust and denial.

He shrugs. “My sample wasn’t so impressive. But thanks for the compliment.”

Ayisha sits across from Jurek. He fights down the urge to retreat. Done too much of that already.

“It’s not a compliment,” she says through thinly parted lips. “It’s a question.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

Ayisha sips her coffee. “I pulled up your suit’s telemetry. The real one, not that crap you fed us.” Sips again. “You could have died out there.”

“That sounds more like an opinion than a question.” Jurek’s eyes are tired of these lights. His mouth weary from all this talk. He wishes to return to the murky depths, where he belongs.

Ayisha crosses her arms. “You have some kind of death wish?”

The look of barely concealed longing on Jurek’s face, his only response, catches her offguard. He sees it in her shiver, in the way she tries to hold her spine in place.

To her credit, she recovers quickly, burying her surprise with pragmatic indignation. She sets the cup aside. “You know how many credits a replacement would cost us?”

“I just want us to accomplish our mission,” Jurek says, stretching his arms. “I’ll let history be the judge of whatever risks I take.”

“It’s my judgment you have to contend with, not history’s.”

Jurek offers her something cold and tantalizing in his eyes. “I’m not Balal,” he whispers.

Ayisha pulls back. Her brother Balal died in a dive three years ago, and his ghost still haunts her. She is undergoing grief counseling, but there’s only so much an AI can do, which, as Jurek has discovered, is almost nothing at all.

“That was low,” she says.

“All I’m saying is that I won’t make the same mistakes he made,” Jurek says. “If anything happens to me, you can rest assured it won’t be your fault.”

“No.” Ayisha rises. “Effective immediately, I’m suspending you from active duty.”

Jurek remains sitting. Ayisha is the senior scientist and ranking official on Europa, endowed with the authority to suspend anyone from duty, but her decision will need to be ratified by the other researchers, including this hub’s beta crew, whom Jurek has pissed off several times, and the alpha crews of Hubs Two and Three, who will probably want to err on the side of caution and back her up. But then, why would anyone stand up for Jurek?

As Ayisha leaves the room, Jurek realizes the bright lights no longer bother him.

Gils Gitleff has a lantern jaw and too-small teeth that crowd his narrow mouth, but his deep-set eyes show a spark of interest.

“So you see,” Charlotte says, her hands lovingly shaping Europa in the air, “some of the seeds are bound to land in lenticulae or chaos zones, areas of recent disturbance where ice plates have been fractured. And whether the thickor thin-shell models of Europa are correct, our seeds have the capacity, unpowered, purely by mechanical design, to corkscrew all the way to liquid water, leaving their long, broadcaster tails behind them on the surface. These tails will be less than a millimeter wide but forty to fifty kilometers long—”

“The speed?” Gitleff barks, startling Charlotte so that she wobbles on her heels.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You mentioned it before. The speed of drilling, so to speak.”

Charlotte resists the urge to fan her face. The cave they are in—they call it a room, but it’s a cave—is climate controlled, and the orange and blue lights can hardly be making her hot, but the speed is one number she thought she had successfully slipped by him.

“One point three,” she says.

“Kilometers?”

“Meters.”

“Per day?”

“On average. Sir, areas of intense radiation, where the speed of drilling would be increased, are most likely the areas where the ice shell is thickest, and also not ideal for our instruments, which carry live extremophile Earth bacteria for the amplification of organic molecules—”

“I’ve heard enough. You should have led with this important piece of data and saved us all the bother. If Europa’s ice shell is indeed forty kilometers thick, it will take your seeds something like eighty-four years to penetrate it. Correct?”

“Sir,” Charlotte argues, “the costs of this venture are minimal. Nothing like the grand schemes dreamed up in the past. No more than the purchase price of an ordinary house—”

“In that case, Charlotte—may I call you Charlotte?—I suggest that you sell your house.”

In the train, on the way home, Ågesine seems undaunted.

“He was impatient,” she says, patting Charlotte’s knee.

Charlotte stares into blackness out the window until the blackness winks out and the pale, pearly sky leaps out over snow-capped peaks. Reluctant to return to the real world, where her hopes have been dashed so thoroughly for the second time, so soon, she slides her fingers into her pocket and finds her earpiece buzzing.

She puts it in.

Messages.

So many messages.

“I know you can never forgive me,” Mai says between choked-off sobs. “It was just a tiny little bit of lemon on his fish. He wanted to try it.”

“Our records,” the official at the Bergen politistasjon says, “indicate that the boy’s father, now deceased, suffered from citrus allergy. Were you aware of this?”

“Anaphylaxis,” diagnoses the robotic coroner at Haukeland University Hospital. “We don’t test routinely for citrus allergy. It is so very rare in children. Kristian’s brain had already been without oxygen for ten minutes when he was put in the first aid booth. We couldn’t revive him. I’m sorry.”

And Charlotte is screaming like she screamed on the night of the storm.

And Ågesine is trying to hold her arms, to stop her from scratching at her face.

And all Charlotte can hear is her own voice saying, You don’t need to take him anywhere.

Tell him he’s being ridiculous.

Hub One is nestled inside a huge crater at the intersection of two of Europa’s longest lineae, Udaeus and Minos. Every time Jurek heads down below, he recalls catching his breath at his first close-up view of Europa’s stark, rugged ice surface during his descent seven years ago, and today the memory is particularly vivid.

The research team chose this crater because it borders a point of low structural integrity in the ice layer, low enough for them to have drilled a vertical tunnel that goes all the way down into the water. Jurek clambers down the stairway, completes the decon chamber cycle, and reaches the terminal with the four flotation units. Bubble-shaped, these units surf magnetic fields generated on the surface by the hub, rising and falling within the tunnel at the scientist’s behest, like elevators. Three security codes are needed to enter one of the bubbles, and no scientist is permitted to ride alone.

It takes Jurek a minute and a half to bypass the security protocols. Once inside the bubble, he reroutes all of its controls to manual and kills the internal lights, switching to his nanos for visibility.

He relishes the solitude of the long ride down.

Finds quiet within himself.

His mind is a vast lake. No ripples or waves. Still surface. Transparent to his own thoughts.

The serenity doesn’t last long.

A shrill alarm bleeds from Jurek’s earmite into his brain, churning everything up.

Then Ayisha’s voice comes through, breathless. “What are you doing? Stop right now and come back up!”

Jurek shakes his head—a gesture lost on her, since he has disabled visual connection. But perhaps she can sense his refusal anyway, because she says, “Jurek, you’re being ridiculous!”

Still he says nothing.

“Fine! We’re coming down after you.”

Jurek doesn’t bother to point out they’re unlikely to catch him. There are countless fissures and crevasses at the bottom of Europa’s ocean, a million places to hide, and if there’s one thing Jurek’s good at, it’s making himself invisible.

Of course, this is not a long-term survival strategy.

The bubble reaches the bottom of the tunnel. Jurek opens the hatch and steps into the equalization chamber that connects with the Talos. Air hisses. Pressures adjust.

The sub door opens.

He doesn’t get on.

Instead he uses his nanos to establish re mote access to the sub. A dozen commands later, the Talos sets out, presumably looking like he’s onboard.

He reenters the bubble.

“Seal door and release emergency valve.”

Releasing the emergency valve will allow water to enter this unit, his earmite advises. The unit’s internal systems may be damaged. This procedure is not recommended. No danger currently detected.

I’m the danger, you stupid algorithm, Jurek thinks. “Override.” He transmits the security code.

Override accepted, the earmite announces. Prepare for release of emergency valve.

Jurek doesn’t need to be told twice. He crouches down. As the valve flap recedes and the freezing Europan ocean comes rushing in, he dives headfirst through the opening.

Ågesine waits for Charlotte outside the great carved villa.

They walk together from there, down the hill, through the dark, dripping forest, in the direction of Kristian’s grave.

“It’s done,” Charlotte says woodenly. The rain is a light mist on her lashes. She’s misplaced her umbrella. “The house is sold. The money will go to your account, Ågesine.”

Ågesine squeezes her arm.

“You will be there for the launch, Char lotte.”

“No. I don’t care about the launch.”

“You do, or you wouldn’t have sold your island.”

But Charlotte didn’t sell it because of Europa. She sold it because she didn’t need it any more.

Crushed shells on the trail offer secure purchase to two pairs of boots; Charlotte stops to cry at the memory of Kristian’s little boots on that path. The pair of them step over knotted tree-roots, slippery with the rain, and although Ågesine lifts her head to admire the intermittent views of cloud-covered sea, Charlotte doesn’t want to see them. They aren’t hers any more.

She has nothing. The only thing she had of value is gone.

The family plot is silent aside from the relentless drip drip drip of rain from spruce needles to beds of luminous moss, all the dead covered in soft blankets, except for Kristian, whose plot is covered in crushed rock.

“He would have grown into a man and left you one day,” Ågesine says, and Charlotte abruptly hates her. She flings Ågesine’s hand away.

“He would have died one day.” Ågesine is relentless. “Death is the only certain thing in life. He would have grown old and sad. Full of pain. Regrets.”

“Is that true, Ågesine?” Charlotte shouts. “Is life so terrible? Is that why you want to go to Europa? Because you are so full of pain and regrets?”

“No,” Ågesine admits.

“It was a mistake to bury him here.” Charlotte finds herself weeping again, her hands and knees against the pulverized rock. “He deserved to grow old. I killed him. I didn’t listen to him. Now he has to stay on this island of vipers. I wish he was the one going to Europa.”

“Nobody’s going to Europa. Not yet,” Ågesine says.

“The bacteria are going.”

“The bacteria are staying inside their capsules. They’re there for amplification purposes only.”

“Nothing on Europa is worth amplifying,” Charlotte says savagely. “It’s a big freezer. A big laboratory. A big meat locker!”

She looks up at Ågesine. Their eyes meet.

“Send his DNA to Europa,” Charlotte says.

“What? No!”

“Not to be frozen. Not to be stored but to be alive. To live again, forever. Put his genome in the bacteria. Let them amplify him. Let them loose in that planet-sized ocean.”

“You’re mad with grief, Charlotte. Any changes to the project, and they won’t pass it. Europa can’t be contaminated.”

“You could do it. Without them knowing. You don’t care about Europa’s native life, if there is any. You want to live there. You want to live forever. Do this, for me. After all I’ve done for you. After I killed my child because I put him second, after you.”

“Don’t you dare try to put his death on me.” Ågesine draws back, as though Charlotte is a viper who has bitten her. “It happened. Things happen. People die.”

She whirls and walks away, ducking her head beneath the heavy boughs of the evergreens, leaving Charlotte alone.

“Give Mamma a cuddle, Kristian,” Charlotte breathes, facedown on the cutting stone. “She’s having such a bad dream.”

When the tremors start, Jurek chalks it up to exhaustion. Five hours of uninterrupted swimming will tax even the best bodymods. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s psychosomatic guilt at disobeying Ayisha and jeopardizing his career.

Then the tremors graduate to spasms so intense Jurek can’t coordinate his muscles and he loses all interest in rationalizations. Now his arms flail, and his legs twitch, and his breath comes in quickened gasps, making it hard to hear his own thoughts. Fuck. He hears that one clearly, a dozen times in a panicked crescendo. Jurek’s body feels simultaneously battered and ready to explode.

“Emergency... med... scan,” he pants.

When the earmite replies, he could swear it sounds supercilious. Onset of asphyxia detected. Cyanosis detected. Hypertensive crisis underway. Blood pressure at two hundred thirty over one hundred twenty. Heart rate at three hundred and fifteen beats per minute. Paralysis imminent. Abort. Paralysis imminent. Abort.

A fully functional suit would now send out a distress signal and induce artificial coma to preserve the diver’s life as long as possible. But Jurek disabled these functions a long time ago. He likes to make his own choices.

Like for example, Do nothing and die.

Simple. Appealing. Die out in the field, doing what he loves most. Yes. Screw growing old and frail. Screw being punished for his infraction. Yes. Yes. He really wants to do this one thing that will free him from ever having to do anything else again—but his mom’s wavering face appears before him, and he can’t choose to die in front of her, after all this time he’s still shy in that way, there are things a boy cannot do in front of his mom and letting go is one of them.

“Leave... me... alone....”

Command unclear, the earmite replies.

Eleonore’s face ripples in the water but doesn’t disperse. Her smile is the smile of one who asks for forgiveness, of one who won ders how she has failed. “Please, son,” she seems to want to utter, but when she opens her mouth only bubbles emerge.

She can’t plead with him because she’s drowning.

I’m drowning her, Jurek thinks. I’m the one doing it.

Or is he the one drowning?

“Mom... need... get back up... how did you... here... too deep...”

Command unclear, the earmite repeats.

But Jurek’s delusional mind argues with this. It’s clear. Very clear what I need to do.

But he’s not allowed to pursue this line of thought, to act on this pure, noble impulse, because the earmite is at it again, just won’t shut up. Paralysis imminent. Abort. Paralysis imminent. Abort. Abort. Abort.

The stupid, dictatorial mite, with its incessant chatter, won’t let him die. Fine. He’ll play along, at least for now. To live he needs to slow his metabolism. Reduce his breaths to one every four or five minutes, the slowest rate he can attain. With his bodymods, he can extract oxygen and magnesium sulfate directly from the water through his suit-gills. The problem is the temperature.

He’s too close to various underwater vents, so he needs to rise, to find some of those beautiful ductile ice stalactites that grow from the moon’s frigid ice skin, and hold on for dear life.

Yes. Rise.

“Seek... lower... temps...” he wheezes.

His suit responds at once, increasing its buoyancy and pushing him up.

During his ascent, awareness flashes like lightning. He is the lightning, the convulsive force of nature that dazzles and burns all it touches. In the after-echo of each strobe burst, he sees Eleonore’s face again, worried, imploring.

Flash, flash, heave, heave, pant, pant, up he goes, up up up, too fast now, too fast, stretching his arms to minimize the impact of the ice ceiling—pushes himself off—tumbles sideways—spots one of those stalactites—aims for the outgrowth—

He hugs it like a skin-suit, allows its cool to seep into his bones.

Long, slow breath, he thinks. Make it last. Calm now.

Light levels stabilize in his eyes and consciousness. He discerns the bone-white surface of the stalactite he has wrapped himself around, the minerals that float below him like clouds in an upside-down sky of water.

Calm now.

Moment by moment fine control of his body returns, like a sensory tide washing in.

Move your hand, move your finger, move your eyelid.

And so they do.

Calm now.

Jurek stares at the stalactite some more, un sure what else he should do. Maybe now he can sleep....

The earmite intrudes again, informing him of a new difficulty. Radiation levels approaching critical. Seek shelter.

Obviously he has been outside of the hub’s antirad environment too long. By coming up closer to the surface he may have staved off asphyxiation—only to be broiled alive by invisible death rays.

“Radiation visual map.” His nano-lenses superimpose color patterns on his surroundings. Red is bad, blue is good. There. That way. Reluctantly, as though it were his lifeline, he lets go of the stalactite and swims to one of the protected pockets, about fifty feet below. The radiation there is much lower. A quick scan of the area reveals why. The ice shelf above has pleated downward, doubling over itself. The underwater extrusion is maximally shielded.

“Temperature map.” Inside the pocket he locates another cool stalactite, this one smaller than its predecessor.

“Restore normal visual.”

That’s when he notices it. His suit’s fingers are coated with something white. Some kind of slimy residue from the previous stalactite.

“Analysis of white substance on gloves.”

Circular bacterial colony, three millimeters in diameter.

“Confirm—alive?”

Confirmed.

The word jolts Jurek fully back into himself. His senses refine and sharpen like an ice-harvester’s blades. With the utmost care, he scrapes off some of the white on his index finger and slides it into his suit’s sample buffer. “Preserve for additional analysis.”

The buffer applies its chemical bath. Preserved, says the earmite.

Jurek studies the new stalactite. More white. “Magnify one hundred fold.”

This time the patterns aren’t circular.

What Jurek sees freezes him in place. Fear shafts his back, pricks his skin.

The bacteria here are arranged in elongated, bilaterally symmetrical shapes.

He’s seen these shapes before. A long time ago. In a biology textbook.

The bizarre clusters, with various layers and striations, look like they’re embryonic growths of some kind.

“Send out rescue signal,” Jurek manages, and a new type of tremor begins.

The dim shapes of tide-washed ice at the bottom of the sea-cliff look like orcas floating belly-up.

There was a time when bergs could not be seen near Bergen, the city’s name aside. Charlotte can see the glow of it in the distance, its wasted light burnishing the clouds to the east. It’s seven hours since sunset, and still she has not done it.

Her shoes are off.

Her hair is unbound.

She’s not sure what she’s waiting for.

When she was Kristian’s age, she used to dream about vipers too. Unwillingly, she recalls the inevitable progress of the dream, how it always started here, at this cliff edge, with her bare feet on the warm stone.

She would take a leaping step, then another, then another, laughing in the Sun. But then she would look to the next stone she wanted to leap to, and there would be a viper on it. And when she looked back, all the rocks behind her had vipers on them, too. The only safe spot was the spot where she stood, and even as she watched, the vipers closest to her began uncoiling.

And she would scream herself awake.

Why had she not remembered? Why had she not comforted him?

The clouds part to the south, and she knows what she’s been waiting for. There is Jupiter, blazing between Regulus and Asellus Borealis, and somewhere around Jupiter is Europa.

And Ågesine has done as Charlotte asked. The launch is a success. Kristian is on his way, to live again on Europa.

To live forever.

Charlotte spreads her arms and lets herself fall.

Two weeks and forty-seven samples after Jurek’s near-death dive, the research team finally understands what’s been preserved on the underside of Europa’s ice.

“It had to have been deliberate,” Jurek says. “There’s no way that made it out here by chance.”

“Agreed,” Ayisha says. In the days leading up to this unprecedented meeting—alpha and beta crews from all three hubs gathered together for the first time—Ayisha has quashed speculation, but now that the findings have been announced she welcomes it.

“The DNA,” says a small woman with dark blue hair tied in a ponytail. “Can we determine who it belonged to?”

Jurek doesn’t know her except through reports: Maia Lukiç from Hub Three, near the Murias Chaos cliffs. Her very personal distaste for him is evident in the way she purses her lips when she catches his glance. Though everyone has to acknowledge the significance of Jurek’s finding, he imagines they’re more than a little sour that Ayisha restored him to active duty.

“We’re working on it,” Ayisha says. “Several DNA fragments have been damaged, but we should have enough information for a match. We’re going all the way back to the first seed probes a century ago.”

“The human DNA was subtly hidden inside various encasings of extremophile amplifying bacteria, which accounts for the dramatic shapes Jurek observed,” Ashmadell says.

“Whoever did it was clearly a subject-matter expert. So we should start with those directly involved in designing and launching the seeds.”

“I recommend we look at several degrees of separation from the core mission groups,” Jurek says. “In case the scientist didn’t send his or her own DNA, but that of someone they knew. A relative, or a close friend maybe.”

Ayisha gestures assent. “Very well.”

“We haven’t talked about motivation,” says Javier Shoung, from Hub Two, at the south ernmost tip of the wondrous Agenor Linea. “Why would anyone want to contaminate the very world their probe was supposed to study?”

Various suggestions are made, all rational and therefore unconvincing to Jurek. His mind drifts. But unlike other times, when his daydreaming has been nothing more than refined regret, this time he’s distracted by a sense of possibility, by the electrifying prospect that he might have made a difference after all. You’d be proud, Mom, he thinks, a completely virgin thought. Eleonore’s face surfaces in his mind, still rippling like it did in the Europan ocean, and her auburn eyes speak to him. I miss you, son, they say. When are you coming back to me?

“Maybe it was grief,” Jurek blurts out. The brawny freckled fellow whom he’s cut off midsentence glares at him but allows him to continue. “Someone in pain who wanted to preserve a loved one’s DNA. They acted irrationally. Didn’t care about sabotaging the mission. Just wanted their lost one preserved somehow.”

Ayisha frowns. Jurek wonders if she’s remembering Balal and how she felt when he died, but she’s tough to read. “Despite his antics, Jurek here has a proven track record with hunches,” she says. “We’ll focus our search on three degrees of separation from the launch teams and look for anyone who suffered a major loss or trauma, say, up to ten years before each probe launch.”

Two women who specialize in data analysis make a quick note and let Ayisha know they will proceed accordingly. The meeting continues for another half hour, during which time Jurek is far away.

When everyone else leaves, he remains in his chair.

“I’m sorry,” Ayisha says, approaching him. “I shouldn’t have made that joke. Undermining you in front of the others is unproductive.”

Jurek waves his hand. His face relaxes with the certainty of a decision made. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It won’t be a problem for long.”

“Oh?”

Eyes brightening, voice soft, he says, “I’m leaving Europa.”

Ayisha leans forward. “Look, I’m sure things will settle down. It was harrowing for everyone in the search parties, not knowing if we’d find you alive or—”

“It’s not about them,” Jurek says. And for once that’s true. “I need to see my mom. The next transport for Mars leaves in six months. And then four years of cryo.” He sighs. “She’s alive now. Who knows whether she’ll still be alive by the time I get there. But I have to try.”

Ayisha nods, lost in a thought for a moment. Then she says, “I think you’re doing the right thing, Jurek. And if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Jurek carries only a small backpack when he boards the Antiparos.

“I’d like to send a video message before cryo,” he tells the captain.

“Knock yourself out,” she says. “But we’re all sharing bandwidth, so you’ve got five minutes.”

Jurek waits his turn, and once inside the tiny communications alcove, he enters the information of one Ågesine Dahl. According to the records she’s over a hundred and fifty years old, an early telomere extension pioneer from a time before the Prefecture made life-extension therapies prohibitively expensive to ordinary folks.

Jurek is unsure how to begin his message, so he just does. “Dear Ågesine. My name is Jurek Nylund and you don’t know me. I’m on my way from Europa to Mars to visit my mother, and possibly you—the record shows you moved to Daedalia Planum thirty years ago. It also shows you wanted to come to Europa but were deemed too old for the radiation exposure. The reason I’m calling is... well, I wanted to ask about a friend of yours from about a century ago. Her name was Charlotte, and it looks like she died shortly after the loss of her son Kristian.” He goes on.

In time, the Antiparos climbs the sky, taking Jurek away from the world of ice.

After the Harvest, Before the Fall

Scott Edelman | 11360 words

As Daniel faced the mirror-masked soldiers who stood shoulder to shoulder at attention before him, blocking the narrow opening which was the only way in or out of his desert colony, he once more found it remarkable that he could not bring himself to hate them. There was a time when he could barely contain the anger he felt toward those armed bodies and armored vehicles which would come on days such as this to fill the lone gap in the miles of barbed wire and electrified fence imprisoning him and the others.

Imprisoning? No. This was no longer a prison to him.

That he’d arrived at this surprising state of acceptance was not something he had chosen, or would have been able to force into being even if he’d wanted to choose. An anger that great could not be intentionally tamed. It had been given to him by grace, given the day his right hand had been taken, an accidental sacrifice to the continued Harvestings he had not yet then come to accept.

Knowing the morning’s ritual was this time being watched by a hidden witness he’d invited to accompany him for the quarterly handover, a witness he hoped his words, his actions, his demeanor would sway, Daniel flung his arms wider than he ever had before as he faced the gate, and the guards, and the gifts he was about to receive.

“I welcome you,” he said, his voice hoarse from the dust that had been stirred up by the caravan from the city he knew he would never see.

Even as he said those words, he was fully aware that in spite of his long efforts at teaching, he was the only one who lived within their colony who could say such things and truly mean them. But still, he lived in hope that that could change, and his hope at that moment was focused on the one who crouched behind the bushes that grew in the sand beside the road of crushed stone leading from the notch in the barrier to their village miles behind.

“I thank you for what gifts you are about to give us, gifts which we are humbled to receive,” he continued. “We will cherish them. We will nurture them. We will prepare them for what is to come. Though they will be ours but for a short while, we will treat them as if they were to be ours forever. For all of us, regardless of on which side of this fence we spend our lives, are promised life everlasting, and each must do his or her part until that day. So come. Enter. Let it be done.”

As Daniel lowered his arms, the line of soldiers parted, but only wide enough to leave space for a single truck to back up and squeeze through the gap between them. Its rear wheels rolled slowly into the colony, stopping after a few feet, no more than what was absolutely necessary for the delivery. When the trunk panel of the vehicle dropped, revealing ten small bundles wrapped in rough cloth—there were always ten, or there had been at least since this transfer had become Daniel’s responsibility—he smiled, hoping his calm affect would spread to those who faced him.

Daniel stepped forward, nodding as if to say to those who kept their unwavering guns aimed at him, we are not so different, you and me. He stepped up onto the rear bumper and gazed at the newborns—if they could be said to have been born at all—and was overcome by emotion so strong, tears filled his eyes. He nearly turned to the one who watched from hiding so he could show him how deeply he’d been moved, pass on the importance of the mission they all shared, but caught himself in time. This task was a thing he was supposed to do alone, and he dared not give away that he was not. Having caught himself in time, he blinked until his vision cleared and then clumsily but tenderly transferred the babies to the horse cart he’d parked behind him.

Even though, due to having only one functioning hand, he was clearly struggling to accomplish this, no one set down a weapon to help. He tried not to judge them for this. But why did they feel the need for raised gun barrels and the strength of numbers? What was it they feared? Didn’t they realize he would never try to escape, that he belonged here, that though he had not chosen this life, he was chosen now?

No, they did not. They could not. He saw by their posture that those who stared him down bore nothing but disgust for him, even as he, at this transcendent moment, could feel only an overwhelming love, the love of a God who ruled them all equally, both those who Harvested and those who existed to be Harvested. That God made no distinction between them, so as best as he could, neither did Daniel.

After securing the newborns—their faces a variety of hues and features, no two alike— safely in the rear of his cart for the long, bumpy trip which was to follow, Daniel turned to the soldiers again and once more began to speak.

“We thank you for our newest generation,” he said, hoping that his words, though rehearsed, would be seen as sincere. “We thank you, every one of you. We do not blame you, any one of you. For your sins, both those that have been chosen and those that have been thrust upon you, you have been forgiven. Know this, as you go back to your homes. And remember our family here, as you go back to your own.”

He could not see through their masks to the faces of these men (and women, too, for the machinery of the world cared little for gender, as long as it did not grind to a halt), only his own face reflected back many times, distorted and diminished. So he lowered his gaze and spoke instead to the barrels of their guns, weapons he’d grown to know far too well. He liked to think, as he continued his farewell, his benediction, that his words had made an eye soften, or a gritted jaw less grim, but he had no way of knowing. Thanks to the armor, all he could tell was that his voice, no matter how temperate he kept it, clearly had no effect on the fingers that hovered so perilously close to their triggers.

“If you could see into my heart, you would believe me,” he went on, hoping that if he only kept speaking, both during the planned deliveries and the random Harvests, his words would one day reach them, and they would break their silence, admit that it was chance and not fate that had decided on which side of the fence they had each ended up. “If you could know what this gift truly means to us, you would believe me. Take these words with you, and think of them until we meet again. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

He nodded with those final words, first left, then right, then center, trying to include them all, trying to convince them all. But even as he hoped, his heart told him it was foolish to expect a response. There had not been one yet, not once in all the times it had fallen on him to repeat this ritual.

The truck pulled forward out of the colony, and then the men backed away from him, neither turning nor lowering their guns until the gate slammed shut, and those guns were no longer needed. They climbed into their vehicles and, without having spoken a word, drove up the winding road down which Daniel had once traveled so long ago when he, newborn himself, had also been one of ten. He watched through the bars of the gate, remaining motionless until the trucks vanished around the curve of a towering sand dune, not to return until a Harvesting was called for, a Harvesting which, unlike the scheduled deliveries, would come as all Harvestings came, without warning.

Once the clouds of dust stirred by their passage had settled, Daniel walked back to his cart. He looked down at the ten innocent faces peeking out from the blankets that wrapped them tightly, and told them how to live, told them what was being asked of them, told them the things he had told all the other swaddled newcomers ever since he had become the one responsible.

“May you grow, but not too quickly,” he said, again with words he had weighed carefully before being called upon to speak them. “May you become tall, but not too tall, strong, but not too strong. May you become healthy, but only healthy enough. May you become wise, but not so wise as to doubt. May you by doing these things survive long enough to develop a willingness to surrender. For that way lies a life everlasting.”

None of them had any idea what he was saying, of course, so their only answers were gurgles of ignorance. That would change quickly, though, in the days ahead. But he continued to speak at that moment anyway, even though waiting would certainly have been more fruitful. His words had to be said. Such a benediction was needed, and it was more than just the babies who’d been delivered to him who needed it.

“Your lives will be short and harsh,” he said. “But they will also be as long as any life needs to be, and accompanied by a beauty rich enough to reward your struggle. Know that you are more than your bodies, because your bodies will be taken from you. It is inevitable. Your bodies will be taken from you, but your souls, your souls can never be taken. Your souls are yours for eternity. Hear what I say even though you will not remember it.”

As Daniel continued speaking, Ezra, naked, rose from his hiding place within the nearby brush and shook the dirt from his body. The muscles that etched his flesh were perfect, his skin flawless, revealing neither scratches nor scars, barren of what it was his duty to receive. Daniel did his best to ignore him, even though the physical evidence of Ezra having rejected his advice—and by choosing to remain naked, making sure all would always see that—irritated him. Ezra moved to the cart and looked down at its contents, remaining silent as he waited for Daniel to finish. It was a ritual even he, for all his rebellion, would have felt uncomfortable interrupting.

“I promise I will help you understand,” Daniel continued. “I promise I will help you learn to see. I promise you that though I may not always be there for you, for nothing human lasts, there is someone else who will be there, always, because whatever happens to your bodies, you will be there, always. Someone grander, someone more powerful. Someone who will make all wrong things right. Welcome. Welcome. Welcome.”

He repeated that final word, kissing each baby’s forehead as he did so. Ezra refrained from speaking until all of them had been so greeted. Then he turned from the children, his face filled with sadness.

“Why did you ask me to join you here today, Daniel?” he said. “Seeing all this with my own eyes almost caused the death of me. Even with their guns, it still took all I had not to lunge at them, not to make them pay for what they have done. For what you and I both know they plan to do.”

“I’m glad you were able to restrain yourself. For what have I been teaching? There’s nothing to be gained by anything but acceptance. I hope you’ll be able to embrace that. Or at least continue to act as if you do.”

“Not for much longer, Daniel,” said Ezra. “Yes, I may have been one of those babies once. Yes, you may have whispered those same words in my ears, pressed your lips to my forehead in welcome. But you mustn’t confuse me for an empty vessel any longer. The message you brought me here to hear? It has been wasted on me. Those words you told the soldiers, words that offered forgiveness? Words that let them leave here feeling as if they had done no wrong? I feel no such forgiveness. Only you and you alone can fool yourself into forgiveness.”

“It’s not foolishness, Ezra. And it’s not only me. There are others. Your friends. Your family.”

“Then the others are wrong, too, Daniel. You are wrong. There are some actions forever beyond forgiveness. There must be, or else there is no point to any of this. So now tell me... I came here as a favor to you, because you have earned my respect, if not my consent. Why am I here?”

“Why are any of us here?” said Daniel, smiling.

“But why am I here now?”

“Let’s discuss this while we ride back.”

“No,” said Ezra. “I’d rather not.”

Daniel sighed. He’d learned long ago that once Ezra entered one of his moods, pulling him out was a difficult, sometimes impossible thing. But he had to try.

“I asked you here precisely because my words have been wasted on you,” said Daniel. “What you heard me recount to these young ones is the same advice you were given—and yes, I gave it to you myself, as you well know—and yet this is the advice you have ignored. But you can’t go on this way. You are running out of time. We are all, each of us, running out of time. Even though you have done a good job refusing what must come, you can’t continue on like this forever. You can only remain hidden so long. Of that I am certain. You must be ready. The days of your body grow short. The time of your Harvesting will be soon. They will come for you.”

“Then let them come,” said Ezra. “And I will be ready. Only not ready how you think.”

“You’re not the only one who will suffer, Ezra. You have friends. You have family. But those people out there, they have guns. Those you love will suffer.”

“You think they are not suffering now?”

“Which is exactly why we were promised a better life ahead.”

“So you say,” said Ezra, his voice rising. “Show me this world where our better life is promised. Let me see it. Prove to me that it exists.”

“You know that’s not for me to do. I am only here to let you know it is waiting. It is for another to lead us there.”

“Then until that other you claim loves us so much chooses to show it to me, I will not live in fantasy. I will live this life, in this body, in this world. And none shall take this life or body or world from me. Guns or no guns.”

“If only it were that simple,” said Daniel. “If only wishing could make things so.”

Daniel reached out and patted one of the babies, its cheeks so soft he feared his rough hand would wound it. But even if he had, even if he’d scratched the child, so what? Wasn’t that what those outside the gate would have wanted? Wasn’t that what their whole existence was all about?

He checked once more that all ten packages were secure, then climbed to sit at the front of the cart.

“But enough of this,” he said, gesturing for Ezra to join him. “Let’s go back. Look at them. They’re surely getting hungry for a real meal by now. And the others are anxious to meet them.”

“I think I’ll walk back,” said Ezra. “I’d rather be alone right now. But thank you.”

“It’s a long walk,” said Daniel.

“And it will be a long life,” said Ezra, stepping off the makeshift road and vanishing once more into the underbrush.

I wish that were possible, thought Daniel, as he gazed toward where his cart could not follow. But sadly, that is not why we were created. Not even you.

Daniel gave the reins a shake and began to head slowly back to his village, mindful of what waited for those who rocked gently behind him, what waited ahead for those who put their faith in him.

As Daniel neared the village, he could see his people already gathering to greet the new arrivals, having heard the sounds of his approach. By the time he stopped his cart in the center of the street that cut through the stand of several dozen huts, all the rest—save Ezra, who regardless of his physical prowess still had to be a few hours behind him—had joined them. He could understand how anxious they were, for he was anxious, too—it had been three months to the day since any of them had known children. Childhood was precious, and always passed too quickly.

Daniel climbed down off the cart and opened his arms to those who had become his family. And unlike when he had made a similar gesture back at the gate, this time his open arms resulted in a series of embraces, the last of which came from Lydia, his wife.

“This is a good day,” he said as the greetings ended. He gestured for them to come closer to those who’d been delivered into their care. There were nearly one hundred others who’d made a life with him remaining in this place, and they piled up five deep as they circled the cart. Daniel squeezed into that circle, joyful to see that what earlier had been helpless newborns had during the trip matured enough to wriggle out of their blankets. Three were already sitting up and looking around wide-eyed, though one fell right back over. Even those who hadn’t yet developed the strength for that were still crawling around the bed of the cart, their uncertain limbs trembling.

“They’re growing fast,” said Lydia.

“They always do,” he said. “It is their gift to us. And it is a reminder as well. As they grow in body, so we must grow in spirit.”

Daniel climbed carefully into the back of the cart and stood in the middle of the children. A few crawled toward him to pat his legs, while one began chewing on his sandals. He cradled each in an elbow and lowered them one by one to the pairings who’d previously been chosen and who’d agreed to be responsible for them until they could be responsible for themselves. When he was done, he looked around and smiled. He never saw any of his people happier than on this one day each quarter when new life came into the compound. He wished he could make them see that regardless of what happened during the months between, regardless of who was Harvested and who allowed to remain chaff a little longer, they should always continue to remain that happy.

“They are yours now,” he said to them from above, his voice booming in the still air.

He wished that voice would carry so Ezra could hear his words. He wished those words would carry ever farther, beyond the settlement, beyond the gates, all the way to those who lived within the unseen city he had built within his mind.

“Not forever, but for a while,” he continued. “Until their Harvest time comes. But do not despair. For who among us is forever? There is only One who is forever, and until we go to meet Him, we must do our best each day below to remember Him. So teach the new members of our family. Prepare them for what is surely to come. Let them know they are more than just their bodies. And as you do these things, most importantly... love them.”

His handover complete, he watched them disperse back to their homes, then climbed down from his perch. He walked beside his wife, handing over the reins so she could be the one to lead the horse cart to their tworoom hut, leaving his remaining hand free to hold hers.

Only once they were inside, and he was seated with a meal in front of him, did he allow the fullness of his exhaustion to show.

“And?” Lydia asked, after he had eaten enough to recover slightly from the trip.

Daniel shrugged, uncertain whether what news he had was any news at all.

“Ezra listened, but he didn’t hear. He watched, but he didn’t see.”

“The man never does,” said Lydia.

“I guess I should be grateful he was willing to come at all. But I was hoping for more. I was hoping that the privilege of witnessing would change him.”

“He may be beyond changing. You may have to admit that, and find another way.”

“No one is beyond changing,” said Daniel, holding up the stub of his forearm, and remembering the day he was the one who watched from the bushes while another performed the ritual at the gate, he the one filled with rage.

“Well, yes, but... you’ve always been special,” she said. “It didn’t take that day to turn you that way. So where is he now?”

“Who knows where Ezra ever goes? There are many places out there to hide, and he manages to do it very well. He’s out there refusing to live by the rules of our existence. Refusing to do what we were put here to do. I mean... look at him. Not a mark on him. He might as well have been decanted this morning. And though when he and I spoke, I pretended I believed otherwise, I know that others are beginning to listen to him. If he can’t be made to change his ways, I’m afraid he may bring an end to us all.”

“And if that happens, if he does cause all of this to end, then so what?” said Lydia. “Even if I were to be taken from you, we would only be apart for a little while.”

She reached across the table to touch his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers and lifted them to his lips.

“We must never be apart,” said Daniel.

“Our turns will come, Daniel,” she said. “Even yours. You know that. Even your injury will only keep you safe for so long. Someone will choose you. And so what? How many times now have you said that we are more than just our bodies?”

“More times than should be necessary,” he said. “But... yes. You are right, and I am weak. I was not meant for this.”

“Don’t be silly, Daniel. You’re the strongest man I know. You’re just worn out from the stress of this important day. Stop worrying yourself over it and come to bed. You’ll need your strength, for tomorrow the true welcoming begins. The ten will need you to show them the way.”

He followed her, knowing she was right— for had he not said to her all she was now saying to him?—but he was uncertain. If Ezra, the best of them all, rejected him, how necessary was he really? He hoped he was merely tired and that sleep would erase all doubts.

He hoped.

Daniel slept unusually late the next morning, meaning Lydia had to wake him, which was in itself unusual. He normally roused early, without prompting, excited by what each day would bring, and no more so than during the day after his quarterly mission, when adrenaline would fill him at the thought of checking on the progress of the new arrivals.

But something about his conversation with Ezra the previous day had disturbed him, leading to uneasy sleep, that when it finally came, did little to refresh him. Once Daniel opened his eyes to Lydia’s gentle shaking and saw her face, though, he knew all would be well, for it needed to be well, for her, for all of them, and with all that at stake, he swore he would make it so. He had no idea how he would deal with the problem that was Ezra... but he had faith.

Though some of the families who’d adopted the newcomers on behalf of them all lived in huts nearby, others worked the farmland that ringed their compound, and even though it was a distance to the outliers, he decided he’d leave his cart home and walk to see them first. He needed time to think about what he would say, even though he’d done this many times before. It seemed more important than ever to get the words of this second round of welcomes right, especially now that those words would be not merely heard, but actually understood.

When he arrived at his first stop, he found the family out in their field, planting beans. As he walked between the rows toward Jamey and Eleanor, he almost didn’t recognize the child working beside them, who had grown, fed by nutritionally enhanced elixirs forbidden to any but the rapidly growing young to imbibe, so different in so little time. She was now, in the space of but a night, barely a child any more. She moved along the rows, having learned her lesson well, with the same speed and agility as her parents. Daniel called to them, and when they brought her forward, he could see she was already up to Daniel’s shoulder.

“Have you a name yet?” Daniel asked her.

The youth grimaced, struggling to seek something it had not occurred to her to look for previously, and then lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“Don’t worry,” said Daniel. “That’s not unusual. One will come to you over the next few days. One always does. Meanwhile, walk with me. Let us talk.”

As the two of them wandered the fields, Daniel offered her advice, the same advice he would repeat with more or less the same words during his nine further stops that day.

“You are here for a reason,” he said. “And that reason is to live, and live fully. Did you note the scarred knuckles of your hosts, the barely healed slash along his cheek, the way the sun burned her shoulders? These are badges of a life well lived. Do not walk when you can run. Do not hesitate when you can take action. Do not be afraid, when you can dare. Our world here is small, as you will learn when you test its boundaries, as we all do, as we all must. But at the same time, it is boundless. Do not feel trapped here, because there is a far more important boundary, that of the skin of your body, and beyond this body there is a whole universe to which you are entitled, and to which you will eventually ascend.”

The girl with the body of a young teen who the day before had been but a babe, and who the day before that had been manufactured not so many miles away, listened, and nodded.

“Do you understand?” said Daniel.

“I think so,” said the nameless girl. “But... maybe not.”

“This is a lot of information for you to absorb,” he continued. “So just remember this. Do not be afraid of what is to come, or of the sacrifice we will be asked to make. Because it is only through that surrender we make contact with the divine, and live on.”

Daniel talked further, because there was more, so much more, that needed to be said, but long before he ran out of words, the girl began to fidget. Seeing how bored she was, obviously preferring to use the new body which had been given to her, Daniel let her return to her caretakers, and walked on, meeting the others, sharing with each what had been shared cycles earlier with him, and which was oh, so necessary to pass on.

Eventually, after repeating the scenario four times without much variation in either his delivery or the newcomer’s response, he arrived to deliver his message to one who did not become bored by his advice, and who instead stopped him mid-sentence to ask: “Why?”

It wasn’t often one would ask him that. Ezra had once uttered the same syllable. This day the word came from a boy who knew his name was Slater. Ezra, too, had already known what he was called at Daniel’s first visit.

So this is what Daniel told him.

“Why?” he said. “Because though our souls are immortal, the bodies we wear are only giv en to us for a short while.”

He did not mention the Harvest, for Slater and the others were too young to learn of that yet. Later, once Daniel’s seeds of surrender had taken root.

“So though they are borrowed, we should not waste them,” he went on. “Our life force must not be restrained. That’s the only way the spirit within grows. Leap and jump and try to touch the sky. Climb trees. Do cartwheels. Embrace this world until it hurts. If that means a knee gets scraped, a scar gets formed, or even a bone gets broken, so be it. Whatever imperfections you create on the outside will only lead to perfection on the inside. So be brave, because then there will be many rewards ahead of you.”

Slater nodded and appeared to understand and accept, as Ezra had once appeared to understand and accept, though time had proven that he truly did not.

And this is what Daniel did not tell Slater, when asked for the why of it all. (Though in words such as those that follow, over many long conversations, it is what he had told Ezra. But only Ezra, whom Daniel had thought—foolishly now, he realized—could handle it.)

“We were created and put here for a reason, and that reason was not a good one, or a fair one, or a just one. But it is one to which we must still nonetheless surrender.

“Fate has not been kind to us. Those who live outside our gates, those whom we never see except wearing masks and bearing guns, get to live forever, or something like that, while we only live for months, or something like that. Whenever one of them is near death, they have another body waiting. But living forever in clone bodies grown in tubes that show no signs of having lived a life is not enough for them. The richest of them seek status in many foolish ways, and one of them is by donning bodies that bear the marks of life. Bodies that show signs of having done more than sit in towers and press buttons and rule the destinies of others. Our bodies, marked by what we do to them within these fences, yielding them a badge of status bought without a thought of what it means. Though maybe they do give a thought, and just do not care. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same.

“Their underlings come here whenever such a body is needed so ones who rule us all can don us as easily as one dons a cloak. They harvest one of us, scoop out a brain and slide another in its place. Do not ask me how they do this. I do not know, and it does not matter.

“But even with this being the case, I am here to tell you that you should not worry. You should not fear. There is more to us, to what we have been given, than that.

“Because there has to be. We must have faith.

“So I was told by the one who came before me, the one I gave my hand trying to save. So it will be told by the one who will inevitably come after.

“Have faith.

“For without it, who among us could go on living?”

Daniel moved on, his mind abuzz with things both said and unsaid, visiting the final four newcomers and sharing a message he hoped would move them. No one after Slater, even though a few others already had their names, asked him why. Which was good. With the thought of Ezra nagging at him more than ever, it was becoming harder to say what should be said and not say what should not be said. He looked forward to telling Lydia of that struggle when he arrived. He needed to tell her that. She would understand.

But that return was delayed, for suddenly there in the road, blocking his way, was Ezra, the village visible just over his shoulder in the distance.

“Have you finished telling your lies for the day, Daniel?”

“I do not lie,” he said. “What is to come to each of us is real.”

“But what about that which has already passed?” said Ezra. “Have you told them the truth of that?”

Ezra nodded toward where Daniel’s left hand once was, which made him jerk his stump behind his back. Embarrassed by the shame Ezra raised in him, he slowly relaxed his arm again, letting it come back to his side. He was never self-conscious about how that day had left him except for when Ezra made him so. It was a reminder of who he had been. A reminder he did not need.

“There’s no need to tell them,” he said. “But that omission by itself is not a lie. There’s much you know that no one else knows.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” said Ezra. “But I know you know it’s all a lie. You were once like me, and they should know it. They should know that the only reason you were able to find it in yourself to surrender to the way things are is because your body is such that none would want it. Until then, you wanted change as much as I do. When you lost your hand, you lost your spirit, too.”

Daniel felt himself trembling and feared that when he spoke next his voice would crack. But he dared not let Ezra hear that, so took a deep breath. Then another.

“I should never have told you those things,” he said, when he could finally go on. “They happened before you arrived here, and you did not need to know them. I hoped knowing them would help you see the truth, but I’ve obviously failed you.”

“I do see the truth, and though it’s not the truth you’d have me see, it’s one they all need to know. Maybe then, the newcomers would fight, instead of giving up the way you have.”

“I did not give up.”

“If they knew, they might see it differently. They would see why you can now so easily sell them a lie. They would see why you would choose to so confuse the others that they would wait for their turns to die, instead of fighting back for the chance to live.”

“I do not lie,” he said, with a passion that itself was no lie. “I believe what I say I believe, and what I say I believe is true. There is a life beyond this body. There is a reward for what we suffer. It will come to us all if we but wait. You’ve got to believe me on that, Ezra, or all will die.”

“All will die someday,” said Ezra. “But not for years. And not by another Harvesting. Not while I live.”

Ezra turned his back on Daniel and walked off the road, then up a hillock dotted with scraggly bushes. This time, Daniel could have followed, as he too was on foot rather than burdened by a cart, but he did not. Wherever Ezra was going, Daniel did not want to go.

Daniel didn’t need Lydia to wake him the next morning, and it wasn’t because he rose on his own the way he usually did. Instead, he was jerked awake by the sound of shouting just outside his door. Fearful he’d missed the start of a Harvest, and that what he was hearing was his people losing control of their emotions without him to guide them, he shook off his grogginess and rushed to investigate.

Everyone seemed to be there, all who remained unharvested from every generation of ten, some yelling to the sky, some yelling at each other, the blur of their words making it difficult for Daniel to figure out why. As soon as they saw him, though, they stopped what they’d been doing and turned. He didn’t even have to ask what had happened. It all exploded out.

“We woke, and she was missing. Why would she have done that?”

“They’re gone, all of them, gone.”

“It was Ezra. It had to have been Ezra.”

“We’ve got to find them. We’ve got to get them back.”

“What will happen to us if a Harvest comes now? What will we do?”

“What does he want with them? It doesn’t make sense.”

Daniel held up his hand that remained, and the chattering died down. His position still had power, whatever doubts Ezra had implanted in them all.

“All of them gone?” he asked, suddenly realizing, as he glanced from face to face, that no, everyone was not gathered there. The recent ten has been—what? Taken? “Really?”

Murmuring told him it was so, more than any words could have.

Jamey pressed forward, holding up a garment Daniel recognized as having been worn by the nameless newcomer he’d visited first the day before. Ezra, before stealing them away, had made them all as naked as he kept himself, the better, he assumed, to declare that they would remain unblemished, that they would not mark their flesh to suit the fashion of those who desired it.

“Look what Ezra made them leave behind,” he said. “Your friend has been getting away with this for too long.”

“Ezra is not my friend,” said Daniel. “What he is, is my family. Our family. As you are all my family.”

“You say that, and yet you’ve done nothing to rein him in,” said Jamey.

“Ezra can’t be reined in,” shouted another. “And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we should listen to him. Maybe we shouldn’t surrender so easily. Maybe he’s right.”

“Right? Crazy is more like it. He cares only for himself.”

Daniel could see, as the clamor of voices turned to cacophony again, that those who had begun to agree with Ezra still did, but at the same time, there was an undercurrent of fear there, and this latest action had frightened many of them even more. Ezra had gone too far, and he knew that he could make them see it. If Ezra had with this action lost them all, perhaps Daniel could still bring him back to the fold.

“We will find them,” Daniel said. “And when we do...”

Daniel left the what of it unsaid. Because though he said it in tones he hoped would convince them that all eventualities were anticipated and under his control, he had no idea what would follow after the finding.

Daniel led them out of the village and into the dry land that surrounded them. There, they split up into teams, dividing up the acreage in hopes of finding where Ezra and the ten newcomers had hidden. After getting them started on their search, Daniel left them to their work and traveled back to the two places where he and Ezra had last spoken. He walked the underbrush into which Ezra had vanished, climbed the hillock he had topped, but sadly, it offered him no clues. He found no obvious trails, no footsteps remaining in the wind-scoured sand, no indentation in the earth where he might have spent a night under the stars.

From a high dune, he could see his friends, made tiny by distance, seeking Ezra, whom he somehow knew would not be found until he wanted to be found. He looked off in one direction to the village, and in the other, to the gate, and worried that if Ezra did not resurface quickly, one would mean the end of the other.

“Do you remember the man who visited you yesterday?” said Ezra to the ten newcomers of many colors and genders, all now nearly as large as he was, who sat with backs pressed against the walls of the small cave. A lone candle lit the space, but it was enough. “Do you remember what he told you? What he asked of you?”

All ten, their heads nearly scraping the cave’s rough ceiling, nodded.

“You must ignore him.”

“Why?” asked a pale woman. “He seemed nice enough. And we know you no better. Why should we trust you?”

“You saw what he looked like, how damaged he was,” said Ezra. “You see what I look like. What you look like, too. Strong. Pristine. Unblemished. Undamaged. Would you choose that over this?”

“Is this a way to live?” said one dark-skinned man, also still nameless. “In a hole in the ground? I would rather be out there.”

“But this is only for a short while,” said Ezra. “Until the time is right for what I will ask you to do to free us. Their way would have you hide forever, until your very self is taken from you.”

“But Daniel said—” started another, before Ezra quickly interrupted him.

“Listen to me very carefully,” said Ezra. “Do not believe the lies. There is no reward. There is no other world beyond this one. This is the only life we get. And we only get to hold onto it until someone comes and takes it from us. Someone who does not deserve it. Someone who thinks of us as cattle. We must not let that happen. We must not be docile. I would have tried to stop this before, but I could not. I am but one person, and one person is not enough. Now that you have joined me here, everything changes. We can do this.”

“I like this body,” said Slater, holding a hand before his face and watching the candle flicker through his fingers. “I would not want to give it up.”

“You won’t have to,” said Ezra. “Stay here with me until the time is right, and you need never die.”

“Never?” said Slater.

“I don’t see why not. Death only comes when one is taken. If one is not taken, who is to say we can’t go on forever?”

Slater smiled.

“Forever,” he said. “I like the sound of that.”

There was no mistaking the rumbling that shook the ground within the compound. There was no way it could indicate anything but a Harvest about to occur. There was nothing to do but what had always been done.

Without needing to be directed, people walked from their homes and left their fields to line up in the middle of the street that ran the length of the center of their village. Daniel walked the line, nodding, touching, calming, wishing the ten—no, eleven—were still with them, even though the newcomers were too young to have been properly burnished by life, and it would be highly unlikely that the time of their Harvesting had already come. Then he took his place at the head of the line, because the first thing those in the caravan needed to see when they arrived was him. Their week of searches had been futile, the absence would be noticed, and his only hope was to beg for more time. Perhaps his words could make them discount the evidence of their eyes.

The trucks pulled up parallel to their line, and then the soldiers, still masked, climbed out to form their own line, so that each citizen was faced by a soldier. But the villagers were outnumbered, leaving additional soldiers to stand at attention at either end. There would be no escape.

But if Daniel had trained his people right, there would be no desire to escape.

“Welcome back,” said Daniel, smiling as widely as ever, though without the confidence to truly back it up. “But surely there’s no need for all this. As I said before, such a show of force is unnecessary. We are ready for our judgment. We are ready for our reward.”

The largest of the soldiers stepped up to Daniel and removed her mask, revealing a face only seen when Harvest times came.

“There’s no judgment here,” she said in a slow and even tone. “Who stays and who goes is decided by one thing and one thing only, and that’s the nature of the orders we need to fill. We’re looking for a match, that’s all. It has nothing to do with who you are or what you’ve done. Not on the inside, anyway. This is just a job. We both exist to serve. Don’t make it something more.”

“It has to be something more,” said Daniel. “The promise of something better was made long before either of us came into the world. For who could bear to live if it were something less?”

“That isn’t my concern.”

The woman looked down at the palm of her glove, and a series of numbers and letters appeared on a small screen mounted there. Daniel had tried in the past to decipher their meaning, hoping that this might help his people, but the characters were as cryptic as ever. She walked the line, studying the list, studying the bodies that stood silently before her.

“You’re eleven short,” she said, once all present had been examined. “Where are they?”

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” said Daniel. “They’re working in the more distant fields, and must not have heard the sounds of your arrival. I’m sure they’ll be here if none of us suit and you need to consider further candidates.”

“That’s what you wanted us to believe the last time, when only one of you was missing. What’s happening to your people, Daniel? Are you losing them?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing is happening. All is as it ever was. So decide. Who will you be Harvesting this time?”

The woman looked down once more at what was written on her hand, scrolled through the information with her thumb.

“Until I see all of your people, there’s no way I can tell,” she said. “I’ve got to see them, Daniel. I’ve got to compare each order with each body. You know that. I was able to let it slide last time, when only one was astray, and an easy match was found, but eleven... that’s too much. I don’t know what scheme your religion is compelling you to pull here, but it will not end well. For you. For any of you.”

“No one is trying to fool you,” said Daniel.

“No one?” said the woman.

Daniel thought of Ezra, thought of one be coming eleven, becoming—what?—and won dered what his endgame was. Did he truly wish to see them all destroyed rather than al low himself to be surrendered? Is that what he wished to bring about? Daniel could not let that happen. He hoped Ezra was watching from hiding, just as he had been earlier at the gate. Perhaps seeing this threat unfold would change his mind. But knowing Ezra, probably not.

“No one,” Daniel said. “We who stand before you are ready. We but accept the will of the Universe.”

“And the will of the Universe right now is that I see every one of you,” said the soldier. “I’ve been patient with you all, haven’t I?”

Not always, thought Daniel, remembering the day his hand had been lost. He chose not to remind her of that day. It was the kind of thing Ezra would have done, accomplishing nothing.

“But that patience has to end,” she continued. “Because others are not being patient with me. The customers must be clothed.”

“And they will be,” said Daniel. “They will be.”

He fell silent. If Ezra was watching, as he surely must be, this would be the right time for him to show himself, to lead the ten with whom he’d absconded, who by now would be fully grown, down out of the sandhills and not hold himself above the way of the world, above the needs of the village.

But there was no movement save that of the wind.

“Tomorrow,” Daniel finally said, breaking the silence. “Come back tomorrow. We will make sure that the others are here. We will make sure all goes back to as it was. It will be as if this absence had never happened.”

The woman did not answer. At least, not with words. She walked the line once more, looking from her palm readout to the gathered villagers. She walked until... she paused in front of Lydia, reached out to touch her shoulder, made her turn this way, that way... then she stepped back and swiped at her palm with a thumb. She nodded, first to Lydia, then to Daniel, then moved on to study the rest of the line. When she completed her examination, she returned to Daniel.

“Tomorrow, then,” she said. “If all are not gathered here...”

Her words hung, leaving unspoken a promise Daniel would do anything to prevent seeing fulfilled.

“They will be,” said Daniel.

The caravan drove off, and though the villagers were soon alone, they did not move on until Daniel told them they were free to do so. Soon the street was empty save for Daniel and Lydia. She came up to him, hugged him, looked in the direction of the gate that could not be seen, but was always present.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“What do we do now?” said Daniel. “We do nothing. What happens next will not be up to us.”

Daniel tilted his head toward the distant hills. He could make out no one there, but nodded anyway, sure he was being watched, sure he was being seen. He lifted his undamaged arm and waved his hand at a future he could not see, once, twice, again...

And then he returned home to wait.

Though it was late, and though Lydia, a comfortable presence, was beside him asleep, and though he was exhausted from tension and worry and fear, Daniel did not sleep. He couldn’t sleep, thoughts of the alternate possibilities the next day might bring racing through his mind.

No, he realized. No longer the next day. It was past midnight, and only hours remained until the caravan’s return and the judgment it would bring. Their leader could call it whatever she wished, but Daniel knew... it was a judgment. A judgment on each of them, but mostly a judgment on him, for his inability to educate them all in the way things had to be. And if the next few hours did not fall one after the other exactly the way he planned, that judgment would be a harsh one.

Daniel knew what he had to do. He hoped that Ezra knew what he had to do, too. Because without the former, the latter could not follow.

He lay there listening to Lydia’s slow breathing and tried to match the pace of her gentle puffs with his own, for then, perhaps, sleep might come, but before he was anywhere close to attaining unconsciousness, he heard a scratching at the back window near his head. He slid from the bed and peered out into the moonlight, where he could see Ezra, his skin aglow. He tilted his head toward the front of the hut, then took a long, last look at Lydia before moving there, opening the door and pulling Ezra in quickly.

“We need to talk,” said Daniel, whispering. Lydia did not need to learn what would come next. He believed in sharing all... but not that. He didn’t want to disappoint her.

“We need to do more than talk,” said Ezra.

Daniel sat down, retrieved a bottle from under the table, and poured himself a drink.

“How much could you see from up there?” he said, his voice cracking. He took a swig from his mug, wishing there was another way.

“I saw enough,” said Ezra, continuing to stand. “They do not deserve your misplaced loyalty. I saw how they treated us. But why are you so nervous? I’ve never seen you like this.”

“That’s because you didn’t see everything. From that distance, you couldn’t. You didn’t see the way the soldier in charge looked at Lydia. You didn’t see the way she threatened me with just a glance and a nod. I fear Lydia will be taken from me if you and the others don’t return.”

“There’s not going to be any return. That’s not going to happen. You know me better than that.”

“I do, I do,” said Daniel. He poured himself another drink, then set a cup on the table opposite it, and filled it to the brim as well. He pushed it a little closer to Ezra. “Which means I have no choice, you see. So tell me... what’s your plan?”

Ezra smiled.

“You would do this now?” he said. “After all you told me? After all you preached, and promised was true? I thought we were more than our bodies. I thought we were promised a reward for surrender.”

“We are more. We are promised. But this... this is Lydia. She means more to me than I can say. I can’t lose her.”

“And you won’t.”

“Then tell me what I need to do,” said Daniel.

Ezra finally pulled back a chair and sat. They talked late into the night, with Ezra laying out what would have to come next, and Daniel listening and nodding and refilling their cups. After many hours, once their plotting had ended and Ezra was gone, Daniel returned to Lydia’s side and this time fell quickly asleep.

Later that same morning, after a brief, deep, dreamless sleep, Daniel climbed aboard his cart and drove from his hut to the center of town, hoping he would be able to find the right words to move them all. He rang the bell that hung there, and did not stop ringing until every member of his tribe was standing around him. Every member save the ten newcomers, that is. And Ezra.

They circled the cart, curious why they had been called that day, which didn’t seem like a day when such a call would be necessary. The only times they gathered there, other than for a Harvest, were for Daniel’s weekly sermons, and a full week had not yet passed since the last one.

“What is it?” asked Lydia, as curious as the others. “Why didn’t you wake me so I could walk here by your side?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “This will not be easy.”

He climbed up on the back of the cart so all could see him and hear his voice. A tarp covered a mound at his feet.

“You’re about to see something which will be upsetting,” he said. He knelt and grasped a corner of the tarp. “Prepare yourselves.”

Daniel tossed back the covering to reveal Ezra’s motionless body, a movement answered by the gasps of some, the screams of many. Several fainted. None, he knew, had ever seen a body in that condition. Those who were Harvested always left of their own accord, and no one within their fences had ever suffered anything near a fatal accident.

As those who could still stand staggered closer, Daniel trusted that the ten who had been taken were watching from a distance, just as Ezra had watched the day before. They needed to see this. They needed to understand.

There were demands for an explanation from a few who could break through their grief to summon words. Daniel held up his hand to quiet them, and it took them longer than usual to fall silent, though this time it was an incomplete silence due to the undercurrent of sobbing which remained throughout his speech.

“I know how shocking this is to you,” said Daniel. “And I wish I did not need to share it with you. But it had to be seen. You needed a reminder that would remain with you always. We all did. Because Ezra had been spreading nonsense, trying to make you believe that the body is all we are, all we will ever be, and must be clung to regardless of what that would bring upon us all. But Ezra was wrong. How do I know he was wrong? The best argument against his false beliefs is this—Ezra lying there. Unmoving. Unthinking. Unable to fight. Unable to surrender. Who among us would believe a body such as this is all we are? Who would not want to believe there is something more?”

“But what happened?” someone shouted.

“Why would he do this?” another cried.

“I don’t know,” said Daniel. “I doubt we’ll ever know. But what I choose to believe is that he came to realize how wrong he had been, and this is how he came to terms with that. Who he had been and who he had come to be was too much for him, I think. I wish he had chosen more wisely. I wish he had been able to decide to live the way we are asked to do. His was not the right path to take, because it is asked of us that we submit to the Harvest, and in doing what he did, he has stepped outside of that order... but I forgive him. We must all forgive him. Because in letting go of the body, he has shown that the body is not all. It could not possibly be all. There is something more. There will always be something more. All we need do is work for it. And wait.”

As Daniel spoke, he could see that the ten whom Ezra had attempted to seduce had come from their hiding place and reentered the village to join them. They made their way through the group to stand by the families in whose care they had originally been put. They were crying. They were all crying. Daniel wiped away his own tears, and continued.

“And now I ask that you return to your homes and prepare for this afternoon’s Harvest, to which all of us must submit.”

Slater, who reminded Daniel of Ezra, who reminded Daniel of himself, pushed through the crowd to place a hand against the cart and peer more closely at Ezra.

“What will happen to him?” he asked, looking more grief-stricken than most.

“While you remain here, I will go off and treat him with the respect he deserves,” he said. “Whatever his choices, he was still one of us. He is still one of us. And he has gone ahead of us to his reward. What remains of him behind will be buried out there. It is a thing I must do alone. So go, and let me do what needs to be done.”

They dispersed in waves, some touching Ezra’s body as they went. Daniel stood silent, head bowed, until finally, only Lydia remained. He covered Ezra’s body with the tarp once more, and then climbed down to stand beside her.

“Where will we do this?” she asked.

“We will not,” he said. “As I told the others, I must do this alone.”

“When you said that, I didn’t think you meant me.”

He looked away, unable to speak.

“But why?” she said. “Why must it be done that way?”

“Because I blame myself for this,” he said. “Had I been able to find better words, it could have gone differently. It would not have had to end this way for him. So he and I must have one final talk. I will speak, while he will look down from the place beyond and only listen.”

He kissed his wife on the forehead, then climbed onto the front of the cart and had the horse pull him slowly out of town, sorry for the lies he had told, sorry for the lies he would tell ahead.

Daniel could feel the trembling of the earth long before the caravan became visible out of a distant, dusty cloud, and was already at the gates with his cart when they opened. The woman in charge stepped forward, not bothering to remove her mask before she spoke.

“What are you doing here, Daniel?” she said. “We didn’t come here to make a delivery. You should be back in your village waiting for our arrival, preparing your people. Whether you’re ready for it or not, whether your people, all of your people, have rejoined you or not, today is Harvest day, and there is work to be done.”

Daniel climbed down from his cart and gestured for the leader to come closer.

“I thought it was best we spoke alone,” he said. “Something happened. Something terrible. And I came to meet you here because I didn’t want my people to live with the evidence any longer than they had to.”

He moved to the back of the cart and flipped back the tarp. There was Ezra, still perfect, still motionless. The leader lifted one of Ezra’s wrists, then let it drop. Daniel flinched as the hand slapped loudly against the bed of the cart.

“This body is useless to us now,” said the woman. “Bodies must be Harvested alive, you know that. This body... it will cost us both. What happened to him?”

Daniel tossed the tarp back in place, covering Ezra again. It was too difficult to speak and say what needed to be said while seeing his limp body there.

“I couldn’t reach him,” Daniel said. “I just couldn’t. He was my one failure. He valued his shell too highly, as you can see by his unblemished flesh, not realizing it was only a cloak we need to cast off in order to don what comes next. He did not believe there was something greater, a spirit that survives the flesh. And so, in his despair, he did this.”

“And the other ten who were missing from yesterday’s count? What of them?”

“The others already know, and now that they have seen what has befallen Ezra, they have rejoined the tribe and will be ready to surrender when necessary. All will be as it was, just as I promised you it would be. Without Ezra, there will be no more troubles here. He was the one with the false ideas. He was the one who stirred them up. He was the one who moved them.”

Daniel paused, his eyes filled with tears for the second time that day.

“He was the one I hoped would take over my role when it will eventually be my turn to yield my body to the Harvest.”

Daniel turned his head from the cart. He could not bear to look in Ezra’s direction, even though his form was hidden, and so focused instead on his own face mirrored back in the soldier’s mask.

“Give me a few more hours,” he said. “Since this body will be useless to you now, I want to give him a proper burial. And then the rhythm will be restored. Just until tonight. Please.”

Daniel had no idea what the woman in charge was thinking, if his words were reaching her. Nothing like this had ever occurred before, so he had no idea whether it was even possible. But it had to be. It had to be.

“All right,” she finally said, but nothing more. She stepped back outside the gates, nodded at the soldiers with her, and drove off. Once the caravan had vanished into the distance, Daniel jingled his reins and left the gate behind as well, wondering whether his promise could truly be fulfilled.

After Daniel had traveled what seemed a safe distance, and both the gate and the village were far behind, he stopped the cart in a valley between two sand dunes. He retrieved a shovel from beside Ezra’s body and began to dig. Doing so with one hand wasn’t easy, but the memory of why he only had one hand, the memory of the fight he had lost and the thought of the one he hoped to win, kept him pressing ahead. This was too important to let clumsiness and pain stop him.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” he said, trusting that Ezra would hear him. “But there was no other way. You were leading them astray. And that plan of yours, the one you laid out as you drank something more than you thought you drank? It was no plan at all, and would never have worked. So you had to be stopped. Someday, when we meet again in the next world, you’ll forgive me.”

He dug until his hand was blistered and he could dig no more, then stepped back and considered the shallow grave. It wasn’t deep enough, but it would have to do. He pulled the tarp back and considered Ezra. There was no way he would take over Daniel’s role now. But then, the possibility had just been a dream anyway. It was never going to have happened.

Daniel unstoppered a vial and poured its contents into Ezra’s mouth, then knelt and massaged his throat. He sat back, picking splinters from his palm with his teeth as he waited.

Soon, Ezra’s eyelids began to flutter. He opened them and glared at Daniel with an anger on which his paralyzed body could not yet follow through.

“What did you do?” he said when he was finally able to speak. He sat up slowly, but when he tried to stand, he failed, unable to will his body to obey him. He rubbed his legs, and Daniel joined him in doing so. Ezra did not try to stop him.

“I did what had to be done,” said Daniel.

“The only thing that has to be done is rise up.”

“And you think we’d win that battle? Them with their guns and the other miracles from their sparkling cities, miracles about which I can only dream, us with our hoes and huts in the desert? You’d have had them kill us all.”

“Which, again, should not matter to you, if you so truly believe in the life everlasting.” Ezra shook off his stupor and rolled from the bed of the cart to stand shakily. “I’ve said it before. I’ll keep saying it. You’ve done nothing here, Daniel, nothing but delay the inevitable. When I go back to the village, I’ll let them all know what you did. You think they’ll follow you then? I will continue the fight.”

“You will continue nothing,” said Daniel. “Unless you vanish, and return to whatever hiding place has kept you hidden so well, and bother none of us any longer, unless you keep up the illusion of death which I have created, which all now believe, your death will be made real.”

“You’d threaten me?”

Ezra spun, a little too fast, and needed to reach out to the cart to steady himself.

“This is no threat,” said Daniel. “The potion I slipped into your wine that knocked you out? It is within your system still. It will be in your system forever. And unless each week I give you some of what I poured down your throat just now, you will die. And not this fake death that allowed you to see and hear but not move. A real death. You believe all I’ve preached has been a lie? You believe there is no life after this one? Then you’d best make sure this one goes on as long as possible.”

“I never would have expected this of you, Daniel.”

“Nor I of myself. So go. Live in your hidden places. Allow the others to think you dead. Only then will the rest of this—”

He tossed his arms wide, encompassing all that was built within the fencing that was his world.

“—go on as it was meant to.”

“This was not meant to be. Man made it this way. It can be unmade.”

“Not by you. And not by me. And not, I fear, by any yet to come. In any case, the choice is yours. I’ll make sure you get a regular delivery of the supplies—and the antidote—you need. But other than that, from now on, you’re only your own.”

Ezra looked as if he was about to speak, but then said nothing, and walked slowly out of the valley and vanished over a sand dune. Once he was gone, Daniel refilled the hole, and rolled rocks over the mound that was formed there, thinking of what he would say during the coming days, when he would bring the others here, and use Ezra’s death to remind them of the way they should live. There was a life beyond the body, there was, and he would use Ezra and the fate he had created for them to believe in to prove it to them. As he struggled to pull further rocks over the disturbed sand to protect a body they did not hide, he rehearsed the sermon he would give. It would be a good sermon. It would be his best sermon ever. It would have to be.

And then he tossed the shovel back into his cart where it joined the tarp, and hurried home to help with the Harvest.

Scott Edelman has published more than 85 short stories in such magazines and anthologies as The Twilight Zone, Dark Discoveries, MetaHorror, The Mammoth Book of Monsters, and many others. His collection of zombie fiction, What Will Come After, released in 2010, was a finalist for both the Stoker Award, and a collection of zombie novelettes titled Liars, Fakers, and the Dead Who Eat Them will be out soon from Written Backwards Press.

Whending My Way Back Home

Bill Johnson | 12854 words

Martin and his AI Artie have previously appeared in Analog in “When the Stone Eagle Flies” (June 2016) and “Paris, 1835” (December 2015).

“Damn it,” Ianna swore. “What’s she doing here?”

Ianna leaned forward and spat a mouthful of freshly chewed wheat gruel into a small stone starter bowl. She sipped from a water skin, washed out her mouth, and spat again on top of the mash.

“Mix and warm,” Martin reminded her. She sighed, rolled her eyes at him, and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She reached into the bowl and kneaded the mixture. It was, Martin knew, both disgusting and oddly satisfying, the wet and smooth texture working together, slipping over and under and through the fingers.

Ianna finished and shook her hands free. She scraped the last of the mash off her fingers, back into the bowl, then used a shaped piece of gazelle bone to scoop a handful of stones from the fire. She propped the stones next to the bowl, to keep the starter mash warm. She wiped her hands clean with a handful of fresh reeds.

“Now,” Martin asked. “What’s the problem?”

Ianna tipped her chin to the north, at the silhouette of a woman coming down the slope of the valley. From the distance, she looked like anyone coming back from a hunt. Martin stood.

The stranger just sent out a broadcast to every Traveler. She’s going to work her way through the camp, to meet everyone, one at a time, Artie told him. She’s telling them to keep it quiet, so the locals don’t notice anything.

“So,” Martin said out loud, to both of them. He glanced over at Ianna. “She’s not what she looks like.”

“No,” Ianna said.

“Details,” Martin ordered.

Artie sharpened Martin’s vision, stretched it like a pair of binoculars. A small display with translucent numbers opened in the lower right of his vision.

Ianna and the rest of the Travelers scattered through the camp were Maxyes tribal, downtiming from the University in Qart-hadast. They were relatively short compared to the native hunter-gatherer’s. Ianna was only five foot two, and she was middle height for the women. She grew her dark hair long on the right side of her head, tied up in a twisted bun, and shaved her hair close on her left side. She used native ochre—yellow, red, and brown—as eye and face makeup.

The stranger, even from a distance, was clearly not a Maxyes. Long hair on both sides of her face, dirty blonde and pulled back and out of the way in an interlaced rope style. Clear skin, no ochre or any other markings. And she was tall. Artie’s display said she was five foot nine. Martin turned his eyes back to normal.

“Tribe?” Martin asked Ianna. “Nation?”

“Alemanni of some kind,” Ianna said, dismis sively. “You can tell by looking at her. She’s probably with their Volks Wachter. The Kehin use her sometimes, to tell us things that need to be kept private. They’re afraid to come back along the timelines, so they send her.”

She looked up at Martin.

“Who does the Chayil use? To tell you things? Is it a person... or something different?”

“Something different,” Martin said absently. He thought for a moment, then turned to Ianna.

“And you should always speak of the Kehin with respect,” Martin warned her. “What if one of the others heard you? What if I—officially— heard you?”

“The army protects its’ own,” Ianna said. “And I’m with you.”

Martin shook his head.

“The army protects the generals. So the priests don’t mess with the generals,” Martin said. He tapped himself on the chest. “But I’m not a general. And neither are you.”

Ianna looked frightened for a moment, then ducked her head and nodded. Martin turned back, but the messenger was down the slope and gone, lost in the flows of people and the mixed-together jumble of tents and shelters and travel lodges.

This means trouble, Artie said gloomily. Martin shrugged and turned away and sat back on his stonework bench.

“Keep your mouth shut and don’t broadcast,” Martin warned Artie in silent. “We’ll get through this.”

“I’m not going to say anything,” he assured Ianna, out loud. He smiled and remembered an old joke from his future.

“What happens in Gobekli, stays in Gobekli.”

Ianna frowned at him, confused, then shook her head, and sat down across from him. She picked up the half-finished mat she had been working on.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And Mar, don’t take this personal, but, sometimes,” she said, hesitated, then rushed forward. “You’re just weird.”

If only she knew, Artie grumbled mournfully. If only she knew...

Martin grunted and concentrated on the fistsized piece of flint in his hand. He turned the rock from side to side. Satisfied, he leaned forward and braced it against his work anvil, a large boulder with a flat top, and carefully struck the flint along a fault line with his soft hammer. A side piece cracked off. He gently and carefully picked up the new piece and felt the slick sharp edge. It still needed a little work to fix the final shape, but that would be easy.

“Perfect,” he said, satisfied. Artie looked through his eyes.

I’m so very proud of you.

Artie did not sound proud. He sounded sarcastic, like a sick old man, crotchety and uncertain and irritated. Martin ignored him and added the new arrowhead to the hide pouch on the ground at his feet.

“Until the beer is ready, we still have to eat,” Martin reminded Artie, unperturbed, in silent mode. He checked the pouch, counted. He looked up and saw Ianna walking up from the river, a pair of skin water bags in her hands. He got up and helped her carry them inside their hut. She smiled at him and sat back on her bench. He held up one of the arrowheads.

“Eabani told me yesterday that he needed to trade. He’s back fresh from a hunt. Mostly gazelle. A few aurochs. I figure I can trade three of these to get us enough meat for today and tomorrow.”

Ianna shook her head.

“Good try, but it won’t work. I ran into Ea bani down at the river.”

“And?”

“He’s going on a long trip,” she said, careful ly. “A long, long trip. He’ll be gone for quite a while.”

He met the woman. The messenger, Artie said on open. Ianna nodded. She held her finger to her lips, touched her head, and spoke out loud.

“Her name, here, is Tiamat,” Ianna said. “She won’t tell anyone what her name is back home.”

“Maybe she’s in trouble back there.”

“Maybe.” Ianna sounded uncertain. “Eabani couldn’t get much out of her.” She studied Martin.

“You sure you’ve never had to deal with her?”

“No,” Martin said. He dropped the arrowhead back into the pouch and picked up his raw flint rock.

“Everyone deals with her,” Ianna said with certainty.

“Not me,” Martin said.

“Have I ever told you there’s something wrong with you?” Ianna asked.

“You may have mentioned that once or twice,” Martin acknowledged. “Still haven’t dealt with her.”

“Well, you’re going to get your chance,” Ianna said. She tilted her head toward the rough path that led up the hill toward the temple.

Tiamat walked along the path, toward a part of the camp where a new tribe had arrived last night. She glanced at Ianna and Martin, then at the newcomers. She held up a finger, nodded to Ianna, then picked up her pace toward the new arrivals.

“But not just yet,” Ianna said.

Martin used his fingers to scoop up a fresh mouthful of gruel from the cooking bowl, carefully kept separate from the starter bowl. He chewed it slowly and focused on Tiamat as she walked past them. He concentrated on her clothes, the gear she carried, the way she walked, the way she looked.

Everything about her, from her hair to her animal skin clothes to the way she moved, was perfect. She blended into the camp like a drop of water into a river.

Which was a mistake.

Perfection, of any kind, was an error. Real people, native people, in any timeline, made mistakes. Real people weren’t perfect. Real people always had something out of place, something that wasn’t quite right. Real life forced mistakes and compromises, smudges and dirty hands.

Martin saw the locals, the ones who lived in this place and time, look up as she walked by. Something about her was wrong, something about her disturbed them. She was just too damned perfect.

He spat the chewed gruel into the starter bowl, added a mouthful of water.

“Time to check the beer.”

Ianna stood and stepped up and out into the sun. There were three whitewashed limestone vessels, shaped roughly like horse water troughs, just outside the shelter. Each was hollowed out to hold about one hundred liters of liquid. The first vessel was full, covered with a lid of interlaced green grass, close to ready. The second held a few liters of thin amber starter liquid. The third was empty.

Ianna went to the first vessel, slid the cover to the side. Martin, from several feet away, still winced at the sharp odor, an unpleasant mix of sour and sickly sweet. Ianna hastily pulled the lid back into place.

“That batch is going to be vile. The brewers in Alemania are cursing you from their greatgrandmother’s wombs.”

Martin shrugged and leaned back on his heels under the shadow of their hide canopy. He looked around the rest of the camp. Hundreds of tents and travel lodges, even more men and women, worshipers and slaves, traders and priests and hunters, with the constant ebb and flow of small children and dogs, laughing and barking and chasing each other.

“If it’s strong enough, they’ll drink it anyway,” he said. She looked at the vessel doubtfully, then over at him. He relented.

“Add some of that honey we traded for this morning. And more of the wild grapes. Crush them up first. Give it a good stir. We’ll cut back on the hawthorn berries on the second batch. And, just maybe, Artie can keep a better watch on the temperature this time.”

I’m doing the best I can, Artie said defensively. He coughed, even though he had no lungs and no body. I’m dying, you know.

Ianna tended to the beer. Martin turned his attention back to the original piece of flint in his hand. It was getting small. He idly wondered if he should go for a knife or a spear point with what was left. A knife would get them more food from a hunting party, but a knife needed a handle. Or he could get two spear points out of what was left. Were two spear points worth more than a good knife? Maybe if he wrapped leather around the handle before he sold the knife. A finished product should be worth more than a bare knife blade. Or, maybe, he should just go for more arrowheads....

Knife, Artie said, in silent. Definitely. And add a decorative design on the leather. The theme for this circle and the Tall Men is the hunter and the phallus. Draw a crocodile on one side of the handle, a naked man on the other. Then trade the knife to one of the priests.

“Why a priest?” Martin asked, out loud.

Ianna looked over at him.

Shut up!, Artie snapped, in silent. Remember where you are, now, and where she’s going to be from, then. Qart-hadast is still a city of priests in the future, even in the university. You want to end up in front of a court of the Ke hin?

“Apologies,” Martin said toward Ianna, but really to Artie.

Eabani is going home, back uptime, so we need a local hunter, Artie explained, patiently.

“Buyuwawa,” Martin said, in silent. “Eabani’s been teaching him. He’ll take over. And he’s local.”

Fine. Buyuwawa, then. Tell the local priest he gets the knife if he gives Buyuwawa a blessing before he goes on a hunt. Tell Buyuwawa he gets the blessing if he gives you a bigger share of the meat from the hunt, Artie sounded exasperated. Didn’t they teach you any economics where you come from?

“No,” Martin said out loud.

Ianna glanced over at him.

“You’re talking to him again.” She sounded just as irritated as Artie. “It’s bad manners to talk to your artie without letting other travelers listen in.”

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Classified talk.”

“You’ve been out here alone too long,” she said, sympathetically. “You need to go uptime and spend some time with a hot shower, an oculus, and a good food printer.” She moved closer to him, pressed up against his side. “Maybe with a warm partner.”

“My contract with the Chayil,” he lied, apologetically.

Ianna was Qart-hadast wins Cannae, Hannibal burns Rome, timeline. The rest of the Travelers in the camp were from the same base timeline with different, minor, variations.

You lying bastard, Artie said, admiringly, in silent. You make it look so easy. I want you to program that into my if-then.

“Not a chance,” Martin replied, in silent. He smiled sincerely at Ianna.

“I can’t leave until I get new orders,” he said to her.

Martin, on the other hand, was always deliberately vague about his homepoint. It was better to let her make assumptions. The fewer lies he told, the better. Easier to keep things straight.

“Perhaps there’s some place we can meet, when your contract is over?” Ianna asked, hopefully. She reached down and rubbed his leg.

“Some place uptime? Some place with a bathtub? And hot water?”

“Yes!”

He shrugged. He looked past her, up toward the plateau and the temple and the Great Cir cle. The tops of several pillars were just visible The Tall Men were not up yet.

“Maybe we can work that out. In the meantime...” he said. He stood and put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her up to her feet. He glanced at the camp, toward where Tiamat had stepped out of sight.

“It will take her at least an hour to work her way here,” Ianna said. “She’ll talk to at least three other Travelers before she reaches us.”

“Well, then,” Martin said. He pushed the hut’s gazelle skin privacy curtain aside. The inside of the hut was dim, not dark, and the pile of grasses they used as a bed was clearly visible in the back. “Perhaps we should enjoy the moment.”

“What about the beer?”

“Artie can take care of the beer.”

This is not fair, Artie protested.

“Yes, he can,” she said, and grinned. She turned and led him by the hand into the room Martin pulled the leather flap closed behind them.

I certainly hope she knows how this works, Artie said morosely, in silent. Because we sure as hell don’t.

Martin caught sight of Tiamat when she was about five minutes away.

Her skin was hunter browned, colored by sun and wind. Her legs were long and muscled. She carried a flint-tipped spear over her shoulder and a knife tucked into her belt.

She wore a loincloth and tied-on animal-skin leggings. This time her hair was tucked under a broad brimmed straw hat. Her shoes were leather sandals, held together by a bark-skin net that tied tightly around and over her ankles. A decorative bandeau, hand knotted into a geometric pattern and decorated with stone beads and feathers, rested on top of her breasts. A gazelle skin cape, and a wood and hide backpack, finished her clothing.

“I want one of those,” Ianna whispered in Martin’s ear as Tiamat walked up to them. They were back outside, on their benches under the canopy in the workroom. “The bandeau. It will make me very happy.”

And if you make her happy, she’ll make you happy, Artie snapped, in silent. Yes, yes, we all know how this works. Bios. If you thought more with your brains and less with your—

Tiamat stopped just outside their canopy. Her head tipped up when Artie spoke, and her eyes seemed to focus on a spot in the air up and behind Martin.

“I agree,” Tiamat said, in silent.

Shit! Artie said. He sounded surprised and afraid. Ianna can’t hear me in silent, but—

“Then I suggest you stay quiet,” Martin interrupted sharply, also in silent mode. He looked up at Tiamat. He kept a firm grip on the halffinished flint knife, all that was left of the stone, in his hand.

“Ianna,” Tiamat said calmly. Her voice was a pleasant mezzo-soprano, bureaucratically neutral and professional, like an AI voice.

“I’m here to inform you that your time, along with all the other Travelers in the camp, is now complete. Please gather your things. Six months present time minimum until you can come back here. A year would be better.”

“When do I have to leave?”

“Now.”

Ianna looked surprised, then stubborn.

“You can’t order me around!”

Tiamat just stared at her for a moment. Her expression froze, and a muscle hardened in her jaw as she visibly worked to control herself.

It’s more than that, Artie said, puzzled. He used a different cipher to talk with Martin privately. Martin recognized the cipher. It was more secure than their usual private mode, but it took more processing cycles. The problem was, this timeline was inherently poisonous to Artie. Part of him was in phase-shift but part of him was anchored in Martin. More cycles meant more of him into Martin and more exposure to this timeline.

Which meant Artie was dying faster.

“Don’t do this,” Martin said.

Shut up, Artie snapped. Switch to the new cipher for private. I don’t trust her. And I promised to watch over you.

“Artie—”

I always keep my promises.

This time Tiamat looked at Martin suspisuspiciously, as if she heard Artie but did not know what he said. She hesitated, then concentrated back on Ianna.

“You’re right,” Tiamat said calmly to Ianna. “I can’t order you around. Tell you what. Stay right here. I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll talk again. If you’re still here.”

Ianna suddenly looked afraid.

“It’s that big of a change?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the worst was that I might be stranded in a different, similar, timeline,” Ianna argued. “Then all I would have to do is wait until the next change nexus and I could slip back home.”

“Usually, that’s possible,” Tiamat admitted. She sounded bored, as if this was an old argument, one she had already gone over several times. “But this one is different. With this one, if you stay, you may not find another change nexus that leads home.”

“So what are my chances if I stay another day?”

Tiamat’s face went still, absent, for a moment. Then she was back.

“Your uncertainty factor is going up rapidly. If you stay, you may be here tomorrow. Or you may be... gone.”

“Gone,” Ianna said slowly.

“Gone,” Tiamat said briskly. “Don’t ask me where or when. I don’t know. Just... gone.”

Ianna glanced at Martin.

“What about him?”

Tiamat hesitated. Martin realized that, under the dirt, her skin was flushed, almost feverish. And her eyes were wrong, slightly off focus. She leaned from one side to another, as if it was difficult to keep her balance.

“What’s your name?” Tiamat demanded. “You’re not on my list.”

“Call me Mar.”

“That’s a Canaanite name. Old school. Your family is from Byblos?”

Martin shrugged.

“It’s the name I use.”

“You’re not on my list,” Tiamat repeated, peevishly.

“He’s military. He’s with the Chayil,” Ianna said, anxiously. Tiamat looked at Martin suspiciously.

“My contract is with the Kehin. They said nothing about any Chayil Travelers in this timezone.”

“Since when,” Martin said, carefully, his voice pitched low, “does the army report to the priests?”

Tiamat hesitated. In every Qart-hadast timeline, there was constant tension between the Kehin and the Chayil, the priests and the army. Tiamat pulled out her knife from her belt, turned it so the handle was toward Martin.

Handle is double purpose, Artie announced. Inside is a quantum retro-causality analyzer. She wants to check you out.

“Two can play that game,” Martin said, in silent. “Tag her.”

You sure?

“Tag her.”

Martin reached out carefully. He made sure his fingers lightly brushed Tiamat’s wrist as he took the knife.

Done.

Martin examined the knife. To all the natives in the camp it looked as if the new hunter was having a chip in her blade looked at by their best flint knapper.

He studied it for a moment, nodded, handed it back to Tiamat. He held out his new, half-finished, knife blade. She made a show of studying it. Finally, she nodded and handed him back the unfinished blade as well as several strips of trail jerky.

Good showmanship, Artie admitted. She’s done this before. Everyone thinks she has just bought herself a new knife when you finish it.

“He’s got to leave also,” Tiamat said stubbornly.

And now we know she can lie, Artie said.

“He has less uncertainty than you,” Tiamat said, grudgingly. “He can stay a little longer. But you have to go now.”

Martin reached over, touched Ianna’s shoulder.

“You go. I’ll only stay a little while, to take care of our things,” he assured her. “I’ll tell Buyuwawa and our other local friends we’ve got to go to Lake Van to harvest more wheat. They’ll watch our beer vats while we’re gone. The rest of the stuff I’ll just give away or bury. We’ll be fine. I’ll meet you uptime. We’ll find that tub and the hot water.”

“But what if we get separated? What if we both can’t come back at the same time?”

Martin held his hands apart.

“What is, is. But you heard her. Our odds are good. But we’ve got to take care of you, first. Now.”

Ianna closed her eyes, then nodded. She leaned close to Martin.

“My name, back home, is Monica,” she said in a soft rush. “Try to find me. I live on the south side of Qart, near the university. I’ll try to come back but, my grant...” She hesitated. “You know faculty politics.”

You don’t know a damned thing about faculty politics, Artie snorted.

“Shut up,” Martin said in silent. He smiled and nodded to Ianna.

She turned and ducked into their hut. She came back a moment later, her few possessions tucked into a bent wood backpack, her datapad disguised as a carefully polished stone rectangle.

Ianna looked at Martin, uncertainly. He reached down and picked up the arrowhead pouch.

“I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t have anything to give you,” he said. He pulled out an arrowhead and handed it to her.

“Don’t say it that way,” she said, miserable. “It will all work out.”

I think she’s actually going to miss you, Artie said, surprised.

“Shut up,” Martin said, in silent, to Artie. He turned his attention to Ianna.

“I’ll remember you,” he said.

Liar, Artie said, tiredly, in silent. Then he re lented. Well, maybe. I’ll help with that. As long as I can.

Ianna hesitated, then took the arrowhead and tucked it carefully away in her pocket. She leaned forward, kissed Martin, and stepped back, to the edge of the canopy shade, and turned to face Tiamat.

“If he’s hurt, Qart-hadast will not be pleased.”

“You speak for all of Qart-hadast?” Tiamat asked with mild disinterest.

“I have connections!”

“I’m sure you do,” Tiamat said dismissively.

Ianna started to walk away but stopped, her back to Martin and Tiamat. She began to turn back toward them.

“Your uncertainty just increased,” Tiamat called out to her. “I suggest you keep moving.”

Ianna shook her head and walked down the hill.

She’s crying, Artie said.

And Ianna was gone.

“There will be a man named Tom Cahill,” Martin said in silent mode to Artie. “He’s going to say that a journey is measured in friends.”

Then we’ve come a long way, Artie said. And we’ve got one hell of a long way to go.

Martin nodded. He turned his attention to Tiamat.

“Come in, get out of the sun. You don’t look so good,” Martin said. He stepped back to give Tiamat room. She ducked her head under the canopy and sat opposite him.

“Water?” he asked and held up a small leather water skin. Tiamat nodded and took a drink. She handed the flask back.

“Ianna is a meaningless little fool. But she likes you,” Tiamat said, tiredly. It sounded like an accusation, but it came out as a simple statement. Martin decided this was not the time to be offended.

“So what does that make me?”

“A mystery,” Tiamat said. She smiled for the first time.

“And you hate mysteries?”

“And I hate mysteries.”

“So. What do you want to know?” Martin asked.

Tiamat spoke to Martin, but her eyes ignored him. She concentrated on everything else in the shelter. Martin knew she was taking an inventory and comparing it to what the archaeologists had found in the area around Gobekli Tepe, thousands of years in the future.

“Take your time,” he said, calmly. “No rush. This place is clean, and so am I. No metals. No plastic. Nothing but stone and wood and bone and leather. Everything organic will decay. The stone is authentic, from right around here, and the chips will join all the rest of the garbage when the People bury the temple.”

Tiamat ignored him.

She doesn’t trust you, Artie said. I can feel her. She’s using her eyes but she’s also scanning the area to see if it matches the historical records.

“Trust, but verify,” Martin said in silent mode.

I don’t know the reference, Artie said, apologetically.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Martin said. “No one will yet.”

Tiamat relaxed and turned her attention to Martin.

“You’re clean,” she said, reluctantly. “No violations.”

“I’m careful,” Martin said. Tiamat nodded.

“Now,” she said. Martin heard the bureaucrat in her voice. He imagined her sitting back in an office chair in an uptime cubicle, her datapad in her lap.

“Project name?”

“You won’t find any reference to it,” Martin warned. “It’s a dark project, and it’s buried.”

“Try me anyway. I can be very persuasive.”

“Stone Eagle.”

“Really?” she asked, skeptical. He pointed to the meter square limestone slab propped up against the outside of the hut. It showed a stylized engraving of a bird, claws outstretched.

“Not as sharp as a holo, but that might be a violation, don’t you think?” Martin asked, sardonically.

“Do it yourself?”

“A friend did it,” Martin said evasively. “I put it up outside my shelter, wherever I go. Let’s people know I’m at home.”

“Speaking of home,” Tiamat asked. “What’s your homeline?”

“Qart-hadast is my capital,” Martin lied. “Long ago and far away from here.”

Tiamat frowned.

Stop being a smart ass! Artie scolded. I know you’ve dealt with police before. She might not be in uniform but I suggest you start thinking of her that way.

Martin ignored him. He smiled back at Tiamat.

“Now it’s my turn,” Martin said. “You ever run into any leakers? From other timelines?”

“A few,” Tiamat admitted. “A very few. And the timelines are not very different. Their home timeline might be one where Qart-hadast was destroyed by an earthquake or a fire. Usually the capital just moves west, to Gades, but civilization stays the same. They never seem to be able to go home. We help them.”

“Kehin help? I’ve heard of it,” Martin said dryly. “Think I’ll take care of myself, thank you.”

“My turn,” Tiamat said. “You work for the Chayil?”

“Classified.”

She made a note.

“And you’re back here for...?”

“Beer.”

“Really.” Tiamat did not sound impressed. She sounded skeptical. “Beer?”

“Beer,” Martin said promptly. He knew his cover story was solid. He gestured at the stone vessels, the grain, the empty fruit and honey bowls.

“Explain.”

“People like to drink beer,” Martin said. He spread his hands wide. “Gives me a good ex cuse to be up and moving around, to explore and talk with different people and different tribes. It’s as simple as that.”

“You’re looking for something.”

“Classified.”

“What’s this got to do,” Tiamat waved her hand at the outside, at the camp and then down the path and up the hill, toward the tem ple several miles away, “with Gobekli Tepe?”

Martin smiled.

“Classified.”

Tiamat frowned.

Got her, Artie said. Blood pressure up, tem perature up, heartbeat up. You’ve got her irri tated.

Tiamat stood.

“You need to go back up-time. Your uncer tainty factor is going up,” she said sharply.

So much for your inimitable charm.

“I have never seen a causality detector like yours,” Martin said, casually.

Tiamat smiled down at him.

“Classified.”

Martin laughed. He leaned back.

“I think I might stay around for a while.”

“Not safe. You need to get the hell out of here.”

Liar, Artie said. She didn’t get a damned thing off you. She just wants you gone.

“I have some things I need to finish,” Martin said.

“And those things are...?”

“Classified.”

“Of course,” Tiamat said. She turned to leave. “Just remember, if you stay here, you may just be... gone.”

“Classified. And I can take care of myself.”

“Go to hell!” Tiamat snapped. She ducked under the canopy and stormed down the hill away from Martin. He waited until she was just far enough away, then went to low power mode.

“Do you have a lock on her?”

I can follow her wherever she goes, Artie re assured him.

“Good. What about her causality detector?”

I can use it.

“Scan her.”

Silence. Martin idly watched a little girl across the way. She was dressed in a gazelle skin and held a black and white puppy. The girl and the dog squatted in the dirt, both of their heads cocked to the side, intently studying a baby in a reed basket. A young woman, probably the mother to all of them, sat nearby and worked on rolling blades of prairie grass together to make string. She looked up, saw the girl and the dog, smiled, and gently rocked the basket.

“Life could be worse,” Martin said to himself

Got it, Artie said. He whistled, low and slow Martin tried to remember when he had pro grammed that if-then into Artie. Or maybe it was an imitation subroutine.

She’s high, Artie said. Her future is very uncertain. Something is going to happen to her.

Martin studied Tiamat as she walked away, as she ducked around a tent and was gone.

“Watch her,” Martin ordered. “When it happens—before it happens—I want to know.”

And?

“And she has a nice ass,” he commented.

Bios!

Martin stepped over to the beer vat, pulled the lid aside, winced at the smell. He poked a hole through the scum on top, dipped in a small cup. The beer underneath was a nice golden hue, despite the odor. He hastily fit the rushes back in place.

“That really is bad,” he admitted.

Sometimes I’m glad I can’t smell things.

“Culture level?”

A good batch, Artie said, smugly. The dirt from that last batch of wheat was just what we needed. Good fungus in it.

Martin shook his head.

“I’m going to see Buyuwawa and the others,” he said. “I still have to eat, and I need to fix this batch, add fruit and mash up the second batch and start number three. Watch the place while I’m gone.”

Bring us back another partner. Asherah, Buyuwawa’s daughter, likes you. What about her? Or Mitelek? He’s strong.

“Not yet,” Martin said. He shook his head. “Give me a little time.”

You liked Ianna.

“I did,” Martin admitted. He walked into the crowd. He limped away, sore off his left foot from a blister. His fingernails were stained. He was just a little too tall, and clumsy, and he needed to gain ten pounds.

He was anything but perfect. And no one noticed him at all.

“Go into self-diagnostic mode,” Martin called back. “Check whatever Ianna left behind. See if you can use any of it to fix some of your problems.”

You want me to steal from her?

“Don’t think of it as stealing,” Martin said. He stepped around the first shelter and out of sight of the Stone Eagle.

“Think of it as creative scrounging.”

Wake up.

Martin opened his eyes just a slit and stretched, as if he was still asleep. His hand slipped under the pile of grass and rushes he used as a pillow and gripped his knife.

“What?”

You’re fine, Artie reassured him hurriedly. No danger.

“Then why the hell did you wake me up? I’m tired.”

It’s Tiamat. She’s dying.

Martin sat up and adjusted his eyes to night vision. Everything became a soft, oddball green, with rounded edges instead of sharp, straight lines.

“Where is she?”

Outside. In her tent. Down the hill.

“Let her live or let her die? Give me the numbers.”

Artie thought for a moment.

Just not enough data, he said regretfully. Does she turn us in to the Kehin? Does she ask too many questions and get the Chayil interested in this agent of theirs that they know nothing about? Does she help us? Can’t tell you. Just don’t know enough about her. She’s sure as hell not in the records. And I don’t have the if-then for this.

Martin sat for a moment. He heard a steady rain against the wall of his hut. The banked fire in the middle of the floor put out just enough heat to keep him warm. Outside, he heard the wind. It sounded cold and sharp.

“If I leave her out there, what happens?” Her temperature is rising, Artie said. If I use that stupid Fahrenheit scale you taught me, she’s already over 102 degrees and rising. Rapidly.

“She’ll die,” he said, resignedly.

She’ll die, Artie agreed.

Martin swore, then sat up and put on his clothes. He laced up his shoes, stood, and stoked the fire with fresh wood and dried dung. He put on his hat and his cape.

“I hate this,” he announced to the empty air and stepped out of his shelter.

Cold rain struck the side of his face. He kept his head down, let his hat take the brunt of the wind.

Left, Artie instructed him. Now right. Around Miskit’s shelter. Ignore the dog. The dog keeps going for you? I don’t care. Kick the damned dog! We’ve got to keep moving.

She’s dying....

Tiamat’s tent was down, knocked over by the wind. Little streams of water ran over the skins. Tiamat was just another lump under the material, soaking in the mud. Martin threw everything aside and dug her out. Her clothes were plastered to her body, slick with sweat and mud. He knelt, draped her over his shoulder, and folded his cape around her. She mumbled something unclear and held on desperately. She felt hot and feverish, and she shook with shivering. He got ready to stand up.

Wait, Artie said. There’s her grain. In that bag to your right. Just by your hand. Open it. Run your fingers through it.

“I don’t have time for that!”

Do it anyway, Artie ordered. You don’t have time not to do it.

Martin cursed, opened the pouch, spilled the grain over his hand.

Triticum monococcum—einkorn wheat, Artie said. He hesitated. Good, good... Damn!

“What?”

I hoped, but... None of it contains TmHKT1;5–A.

Martin stood. His knees creaked. Tiamat groaned. She was definitely up-time. She weighed too damned much.

“Next time,” Martin promised Artie. “We’re going to find it. I promise.”

I just hoped... I thought that, maybe...

Martin put his head down. He concentrated on the ground, on the mud and the rocks and one foot in front of the other. Uphill and downhill, slip and slide, almost down in the mud, rain in his eyes, a loose leather strap whipping his side in the wind, and uphill again.

You’re home.

Martin pushed aside the privacy curtain and the night drape, laid Tiamat next to the fire, and pulled the drape and curtain back to block off the rain and the wind. He collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily, and let his eyesight come back to normal.

“Symptoms?”

Fever. Buboes. Armpit, groin, neck. Chills. No sign of necrosis, yet, but it’s coming on fast.

“Plague,” Martin said. He spat.

Plague, Artie agreed flatly. Damned fleas Doesn’t match—exactly—the modern bubon ic, but it’s close enough.

“Stop any seizures. And wake her up enough so she’ll listen to me.”

It’s going to hurt, Artie warned. She isn’t going to like it.

“Tough,” Martin said. He reached for a jug of fresh beer, the terrible stuff, and a handful of reed straws. He pulled the plug out of the top of the stone vessel and pushed the straws through the top scum into the beer underneath. He moved up close to Tiamat, held her head in his lap. Her eyelids flickered and opened.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” she whispered. Her voice was low and hoarse, and he could tell her throat hurt. She sounded confused, uncertain.

“Drink,” he ordered and pushed the straws into her mouth. “Artie, help her.”

But, her AI—

“Will lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way. Do it. Now.”

Tiamat tried to turn her head away, then drew up suddenly, as Artie pulled her diaphragm and tightened her throat muscles. Beer filled her mouth and dribbled down her lips and neck. She gagged. Martin kept her head forced down on the straws with one hand. She struggled but was too weak to get away from him.

“More,” he ordered and tilted the jar with his other hand. “Or Artie will help you again.”

Tiamat closed her eyes and forced herself to drink more.

Enough, Artie said. We don’t want her to get diarrhea.

Martin eased the straws out of Tiamat’s mouth, laid her down on the bed. He stripped her naked, quickly and efficiently, and tossed her wet clothes next to the fire. He dried her off and tucked her under a heavy bearskin ket.

“Poppy juice?”

Just a bit, Artie agreed, grudgingly. It wil help with the muscle pain.

Martin reached across the bed for another jar, opened it, scooped out a thin, white, oil. He felt Tiamat shiver again. He shook her gently until her eyes opened, blearily.

“Open up,” Martin ordered.

“No more, please...”

“Stop talking. This is something different.”

She opened her mouth. Martin dabbed her lips with poppy paste.

“Lick it off.”

She licked her lips in tiny, little jerks, as if she fell asleep between each move. Or as if she was too weak to do any more each time.

“Whatever it was you made me drink, it smelled terrible,” she said, in a low, cracked, feverish, voice.

“Not worried about that,” Martin said. “How did it taste?”

“Not bad,” she admitted. “Sweet. Fizzy. A little metallic. I think I’m catching a buzz.”

“The buzz is the beer and the opium. The metallic means you got a good dose of the right stuff. Go to sleep.”

Tiamat nodded, her eyes half closed. Her head turned slightly to the side. She began to whisper to herself, the words slurred. Something sounded familiar. Martin leaned forward to listen, then leaned back and looked thoughtful.

What’s wrong?

“It’s a bedtime prayer. The kind you teach a child to say every night, before they go to sleep.”

And... what’s wrong with that?

“Amplify.”

“... Angele Dei, qui custos es mei, Me tibi comissum pietate superna; Hodie, Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna. Amen.”

That’s Latin. A Christian prayer in Latin.

“Yep.”

Carthage destroys Rome in all of the timelines we’ve found here. Long before Christianity. That prayer does not exist here. That prayer will never exist here, anytime or anywhen.

“Yep.”

Now, isn’t that special? Artie asked thoughtfully. Our little Kehin spy seems to be a leaker....

The next day, the rain was gone.

Martin sat outside, in his workroom. The hut door was open. He saw Tiamat inside. She breathed slowly, but steadily, the blanket pushed aside.

“Used the handle on her yet?” Martin asked.

Yes.

“And?”

Her uncertainty is greatly reduced, Artie said.

“She was supposed to die last night.”

Maybe, Artie admitted. She still has some uncertainty. Not much new data yet, but her line is starting to trend up.

“How long until she’s a nexus again?”

Five months? Six months? Can’t be certain.

“Can we use her?”

Not if she’s dead, Artie warned. She’s still sick.

Martin stood, headed for the hut.

“Then we better keep her alive. I’m getting tired of this place.”

Martin sat in the hut. He used a piece of antler to pressure flake the new knife, to sharpen the edge. The handle was now wrapped in leather and decorated on both sides. The priest only charged one arrowhead for the blessing.

“You’re good at that.”

“Thanks,” Martin said. He did not look down at her. Instead, he held up the knife into a shaft of sunlight that fell through the vent opening in the roof. He squinted at the edge and turned the knife back and forth. Sunlight reflected off the shiny grey-black blade and danced on the inside walls of the hut. Satisfied, he put the knife down and turned to face her.

“Lots of practice?” she asked.

“Years.”

“How many years?” Tiamat asked.

“That’s classified,” Martin said slowly. “Perhaps.”

Tiamat studied his face. She tried to sit up, fell back, tried again and managed to prop herself on one elbow. She glanced over at the beer jar. Martin passed her the jar, a strip of beef jerky, and a fresh straw.

Another couple of days, Artie said, in silent. Just to be safe. She’s probably cured now, but just to be safe.

“Question time,” Martin said. He kept his hand on the knife.

“All right.”

“What is your real name? I know it’s not Tiamat, so don’t try that on me.”

“I talked while I was sick.”

You babbled like a toddler with her favorite doll, Artie said. He did not bother with silent mode.

Tiamat sat quiet for a long moment. Finally she nodded to herself and looked up at Martin.

“Est nomen meum Rachel.”

My name is Rachel, Artie said, satisfied, in silent. Latin combined with a Hebrew name. Damned certain she’s not from here. Called it.

“You ready?” Martin asked, in silent.

I still think it’s too risky, Artie fretted.

“You have a better idea?”

Silence. Stretched out to a pause. Rachel studied Martin and the empty space over his shoulder.

No, Artie said regretfully. I don’t like it one damned bit. But we need help. Go for it.

“And my full name is Martin,” Martin said to Rachel.

“Martinus,” Rachel said, thoughtfully. “Roman. Not a popular name choice in Carthage.”

Martin said nothing and waited.

“Why am I alive?” Rachel asked.

“Plague bacillus,” Martin said and pointed to the beer jar in her hand, “responds very well to tetracycline.”

She looked at the jars, then up at Martin.

“You’re not just brewing beer. You’re culturing antibiotics.”

Martin shrugged.

“It grows in the beer if you start with the right grain harvested with the right soil fungi. And they like a beer buzz here as much as they did when I was in school. It brings them back to me after they go on a hunt or out to gather. People talk when they’re all together and a little drunk. I learn things and, hell, I can’t be everywhere, all the time. Think of it as a force multiplier.”

And if we go to all the trouble of grooming the locals, we want to keep them alive. It’s a nasty world out there. Lots of ways to catch an infection. So when our special people leave us, they always take some of our special beer, Artie added.

“Son of a bitch,” Rachel said.

“Which brings us back to you,” Martin said smoothly. “Why did something like the plague bite you? Where’s your artie?”

Rachel went silent for a moment. Her expression changed. She closed her eyes, then opened them. Her eyes seemed to glisten, as if she was trying not to cry.

This is not fair, Artie protested, in silent. She’s still sick. Her defenses are down. You just got her real name, you just told her your own name. Everything you’re doing reminds her of home.

“Life isn’t fair,” Martin replied, in silent.

Damn it, boy! You’re offering her hope. And we don’t have any hope to offer!

Rachel touched her head, gently, with her fingers.

“My artie was modeled after my mother. They hurt her when they found her. They made me listen while they did it.”

Bastards.

“Then they changed her base code and kept the key. I can’t talk to her, she can’t talk to me. It’s like we’re in separate black boxes. They promised they’d bring her back, give me the key, if I did what they wanted.” She looked up at Martin. “They keep their word, in a way. When I go uptime to Qart-hadast, they wake her up, let me talk to her again. Let her work on me, to keep me young.”

But they never give you the key, do they? She repairs you, then they turn her off and tell you you’re going back downtime, and unless you do what you’re told, you’ll never see her again, Artie said. He sounded cold, distant, calm.

Furious.

“So she’s not here, now, to keep you alive,” Martin said. “When you’re back here, you’re on your own.”

“Yes.”

“Artie?” Martin asked in silent.

I can break any encryption, Artie replied confidently, in silent. Might take a while but yes, I’ll see what I can do.

“How long is a while?” Martin asked, in silent.

A while, Artie repeated, testily, in silent. And the more you distract me, the longer it takes.

“How long have they been doing this to you?” Martin asked Rachel.

“I leaked over to this timeline about a hundred biological years ago. It was a rough ride. I thought I was going to go... away. But I came through. To here and now. The Kehin detected me, grabbed me, brought me forward to Carthage. They call it by its Phoenician name, Qart-hadast. The name that Rome trampled in the dust.”

“Why did they keep you alive?”

Rachel sat up and saw her things, laid out neatly beside her. She watched Martin warily, then reached over and touched her knife.

“You know quantum mechanics?”

Martin smiled.

“As well as anyone. God and dice and al that.”

Rachel smiled. She picked up her knife.

“A long time from now, a little over eleven thousand years that way,” Rachel vaguely pointed forward with the knife, “a physicist named Aharonov is going to do a double slit experiment, to determine whether a photon is a wave or a particle.”

“That’s been done before,” Martin said, puzzled. “It’s both, depending on which slit a person observes.”

“Aharonov is going to use a special twist,” Rachel said. “Delayed choice. And he’s going to show that a choice made in the future can impact the past.”

If the future can affect the past, then one philosophical argument is settled, Artie said, thoughtfully, in open. There is predestination. Everyone has a given fate. There is no such thing as free will.

Rachel nodded. She held out the knife.

“The detector is in the handle. It only works if I run it. It apparently has to match up with someone from its home timeline. That’s me,” she said. “The Carthaginians have been unable to replicate it, so they keep me alive. If I use it on their time travelers I can detect when their future and their present are starting to get out of synch. I warn them and they leave.”

“And if they don’t leave?” Martin asked.

“They get more and more uncertain and then... they’re gone.”

I’ve got the reference in our library, Artie said. He sounded puzzled. Aharonov’s claims caused a little stir in our timeline. Then our theorists fussed over it, extended quantum theory, found it was a misinterpretation, equipment error, the usual.

“That’s your timeline,” Rachel said. “Not here.”

“Try it on me,” Martin said. Rachel shrugged. She pointed the knife at Martin. Her expression went absent for a moment, then she was back. She frowned. She pointed the knife away, then pointed it at herself, then back at Martin.

“It must be broken,” she said, puzzled. “It works with me. A little fuzzy, not as good as usual, but it doesn’t work with you. I’m not getting anything.”

I don’t know whether to be happy or upset, Artie said in silent.

“Shut up.”

We still don’t have a future

A week went by. Rachel tried to argue her way out of the hut. Artie held firm.

Photosensitivity is a side affect of tetracycline. And I’ve been giving you a big dose, he warned. I don’t want you stumbling around outside, blinded by the sun. So sit your ass down in here and do something useful!

Rachel made a face. She glanced, unenthusiastically, at the bowl of cold wheat gruel and the other bowl of chewed up starter mash next to it.

“I am sick of—!”

Besides, Artie interrupted smoothly, I want to make sure you and everything you own is thoroughly deloused and defleaed. I’m sorry, but the last thing we can handle is an epidemic in the camp. Too many people coming and going. Martin does what he has to do, when there is an epidemic, but he gets upset. Disposing of the children’s bodies bothers him the most. Brings back memories I can’t erase.

Rachel shut her mouth. She thought for a moment, then slowly nodded. She reached for the gruel.

“I still need clothes,” Rachel said firmly. She glanced at Martin, working on the other side of the hut. “I can’t stay in here naked or only wrapped in a blanket. And most of Martin’s clothes will definitely not fit.”

Use Ianna’s old things, Artie suggested.

“They’re too short on me!”

Modesty, Artie said, exasperated, is one of the stupidest bio concepts in a long, long line of stupid ideas. If Martin had wanted to—

“Artie.”

What?

“Shut up,” Martin said. He turned to Rachel. “I can get you new clothes. I’m not good at making them, but I’ll trade with Asherah. Might take a couple of days.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said. She hesitated, looked down at her blanket, then over at Ianna’s clothes, neatly folded and stacked in the back of the hut.

“I suppose, in the meantime, if I have to,” she said grudgingly. She looked shyly at Martin. “She won’t mind? You won’t mind?”

“It will be fine,” Martin assured her. He stood, pulled aside the night drape and the outside curtain. “I’ll just step outside while you try them on.”

Bios!

And on the eighth day—

“Let her go,” Martin ordered, exasperated. Rachel paced back and forth inside the hut like a caged animal. A caged animal in very short clothing. Martin shifted uncomfortably.

Fine, Artie said grudgingly. Everything we could find is piled up next to the canopy.

Rachel escaped gratefully. Outside she blinked at the sunlight, even under the shade from the canopy, until her eyes adjusted. Then she spotted her things.

Or what was left of them.

Her tent was in pieces, ripped and torn and useless. A pair of shoes. Her bandeau. A broken spear, flint tip gone.

“The storm got worse after I got you,” Martin apologized as he exited the hut after her. They stood together, side by side, over the pathetic little pile. “We found what we could but we were busy with you and, well...”

“It’s all right,” she said. She reached down, touched the bandeau.

It’s safe, Artie assured her. I killed all the little flea bastards. And their eggs. And their eggs’ eggs.

She picked it up, stood, and fastened the bandeau in place around her neck. She glanced at Martin. He felt awkward, uncertain.

“I suppose you have to go now.”

She seemed just as clumsy and hesitant.

“The Kehin will expect me to come back,” she agreed. “But...”

“What?”

“Sometimes I stay longer, after I’ve told everyone else to evacuate,” she said, in a rush. “The uncertainty grows because some event, something key to their timelines, is about to occur. Even though all the Travelers here are from congruent lines, it’s still a center of uncertainty.”

“But you’re not from this timeline,” he said slowly.

“Exactly. It might cause them uncertainty but it does nothing to me. Still, I don’t dare change anything, or I might lose the timeline where the Kehin can unlock Mom. So I just stay here, quiet and out of the way, and record. Sometimes I earn a reward, and they give us extra time together.”

I have an—, Artie said in silent.

“Shut up,” Martin said. He turned to Rachel.

“Stay,” Martin said, impulsively. Suddenly he felt it again, the loneliness he kept pushed away, like he had that night so long, long ago. Back when the stars looked so much different than they did now, and he realized he would have to live his way home.

“Stay? I can’t. My tent, my supplies... I have nothing.”

“Stay here. In the hut. With me.”

“With you?”

“Yes,” Martin said. He gestured helplessly. “I need someone who can help me with the beer and the flints and mashing the wheat and—”

“Hush,” she said. She stepped closer to him, but not close enough to touch. “I’ll stay. But just for a few days.”

Martin smiled.

“But just for a few days,” she warned and smiled back at him.

All right, what’s your idea? I admit it, I’m all out of if-then, even in random mode.

It was months later. Martin sat outside the camp, on the crest of a ridge where he could see across the valley and up the hill to the temple on top of Gobekli Tepe. He absently chewed a long piece of rye grass.

“Let me see Gobekli, again.”

Artie shifted his vision to binocular mode.

Gobekli Tepe’s latest incarnation was almost finished. The Tall Men, giant T-shaped pillars, twenty five feet high, solid limestone blocks, carved with shapes in bas-relief, were almost set into place facing each other. The benches fac ing the open area between the Tall Men were ready. The smaller pillars, arranged in a circle around the Tall Men, were up. Thatch and wooden poles, to make and support the roof, lay in piles, ready to be assembled and cover the whole temple once the Tall Men were ready.

The entrance was still a wooden framework, a skeleton of lashed together branches and limbs. It was deliberately short—to make everyone duck and lower their heads—and winding. When it was ready, it would become a corridor, covered with layers of hides to make a darkened tunnel with just enough torches and openings to see a step or two ahead. The idea, one of the priests had told him after a night of drinking, was to have people experience the darkness of death and dying before they entered the temple to celebrate and honor their own dead.

It was almost time for the tribes to gather and the ceremonies to begin.

You want to go to the temple and work the crowds? One more time?

“No,” Martin said decisively. “How many times have we tried that? How many hundreds of years? It’s never there. Too many people, too much going on, too hard to figure out what to do. I’m sick of searching Gobekli. It never works.”

But we know it comes through Gobekli on its way to Carthage, Artie argued.

“Agreed,” Martin said. “Every trail we’ve followed shows it comes through here. But despite everything we’ve tried, the Qart-hadast Travelers still come back here from the future every few months. If we had broken the chain, they wouldn’t come back. So we haven’t done the job right yet.”

Martin shook his head.

“The camp is the key,” Martin said, stubborn and determined. “The people come here, to the camp. This is the key, not Gobekli. It spreads out from here and eventually ends up in Carthage.”

Even if this is the change locus, what good does it do us? Artie asked, despairingly. When the temple is dedicated, when the Tall Men are set in place, all the tribes will flow in here with their dead. Thousands of people. It’s even worse than searching up at the temple. Too many people and too crowded. How the hell do we find it?

“We need to make it look for us. A honey trap is the best idea.”

I don’t like it.

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to tel me if your if-then thinks it will work.”

Martin sat quietly on the hillside. He finished the rye grass straw, tossed it aside, picked another, and started chewing fresh.

Before him were plains and rolling hillsides, green and fertile, fresh with rain, crossed with small streams, dotted with marshes. A flock of goats, a small herd of gazelle. The plains of Edin.

“Maybe I should change my name to Eve,” he asked thoughtfully.

Wrong sex, Artie said. And even worse attitude.

“Answer?”

Maybe, Artie said, thoughtfully. My if-then says maybe your idea will work. But you know what that maybe means?

“I know,” Martin said, morosely. He licked his lips, moved his jaw back and forth.

More beer.

“Rachel can help us,” Martin said. He did not look happy. “More wheat gruel. More starter mash.”

If you want to build a trap, you have to bait it....

“So we concentrate here this time.”

Beer. And Rachel’s knife.

Artie went silent. Martin imagined the code, all the if-then spinning around if-then, subroutines chasing subroutines, with random changes thrown in, evolved in, evolved out...

And what if you do find it? Artie asked. If we do what we have to do, all the Qart-hadast timelines, all the Travelers from those futures, are going to shift away. You’ll be alone again. And what about Rachel? She must have some small connection to these timelines, or she never would have made it here. Are you going to just use her and then let her, maybe... go away? Damn it, Martin, if she’s linked to Qarthadast she won’t even get to say goodbye to her mother!

“Are the needs of the one,” Martin asked, “more important than the needs of the many?”

Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking you. That’s exactly what my if-then wants to know.

Martin stared at Gobekli. Even at full magnification, the priests and the slaves seemed like tiny little ants, unimportant, something to be brushed away and ignored. Not something important. Not something like himself.

“That’s a damned good question. A damned good question.”

“We need to talk.”

Rachel lounged comfortably under the canopy, stretched out along a bench, a stitched together strip of marsh reeds over her eyes, like a sleeping band. A pair of rabbits, freshly caught and cleaned and skinned, roasted gently over the fire. A pile of greens was in a stone bowl. A two person stone vessel of fresh beer, latest batch, zero on the tetracycline, light on the hawthorn berries, heavy on the grapes and honey, straws already in place, waited to go with dinner.

She wore new clothes now, stitched and shaped by Asherah. Rachel filled them out comfortably, her weight finally back from the plague and the diarrhea after Artie accidentally dosed her with too much tetracycline. She looked damned good. Martin smiled.

“Something up?” she asked and sat up. She took off the sleep band and set it to the side.

Check the handle of your knife. On yourself.

Rachel slipped out her knife and, unobtrusively, scanned herself.

“Uncertainty is going up,” she said. Suddenly, she looked nervous. She looked up at Martin. He sat down on the bench across from her.

“Now, check me.”

She turned the knife toward Martin. Frowned. Looked up at him.

“Nothing. No uncertainty at all.”

It’s time to explain some things, Artie said.

“A long time ago,” Martin started, “a long, long, time ago, I came back. Not to here. Not to anywhere near here. But I came back. A long when back. One hell of a lot farther than now. I had a job to do. I did it. I didn’t want to do it, but I did it. And when I finished that job, I couldn’t go back home.”

“You changed your own future,” Rachel said. Her eyes widened. “That’s why the causality scan doesn’t work on you. You don’t have a future.”

What a lovely way to phrase it.

“Shut up,” Martin said, automatically, to Artie. He nodded to Rachel. “But correct. I have no future. My timeline doesn’t exist. Not at all, and not in any way. I can go farther back, but I can’t go forward. If I go back, I have to live my way, one day at a time, back to now, in a slightly different timeline where I never existed before.”

“You’re lost. You’re trapped, here in the past,” Rachel said. She sounded fascinated, like Martin was some kind of insect frozen in amber.

“I am not trapped,” Martin said, determined. He stared directly into Rachel’s eyes.

“I have no destiny, no preordained future,” he said, slowly. “But I’m going forward anyway. One day at a time. And I’m going to make my own future. I’m going to make it be the way I want it to be. And nothing and no one is going to stand in my way.”

“You left someone behind when you went back,” Rachel said.

“I left everything behind. Everyone and everything,” Martin agreed. His voice hardened. “It had to be done. But I’m going to get them all back. I’m going to build that future, one day at a time, until I get back everything I lost.”

“It can’t be done,” Rachel said. She sounded uncertain. She turned away and shook her head. Martin reached out, touched her shoulder, turned her back toward him. He lifted up her chin until she looked at him.

“We are going to do it,” he said. “You and me and Artie.”

“How?”

To start with, we’re going to make sure that Rome burns Carthage to the ground....

The Tall Men and the roof were in place. The dark corridor with its deep black entrance was all in place. The temple at Gobekli Tepe was ready.

At first the visitors were just an individual or two, awed and silent, escorted by the priests through the corridor and up to the Tall Men. There they touched the stones, ran their fingers over the bas-relief sculptures, and left a gift for the gods.

But word spread quickly. The hunter gatherers came home from across the plains. Soon individual camps, families and clans and tribes, dotted the hills and valleys all around the central hill of Gobekli Tepe. During the day there was a constant flow of people back and forth, up and down, between the different tents and shelters. Hunting parties went out hungry and came back, mostly with gazelle, but with auroch and wild pigs and goats and anything else they could catch or trap. Fishing and gathering went on relentlessly down at the rivers and creeks and in the marshes. Trading, for bone and obsidian and flint, was a busy trade. Young men and women, as they always did, found each other.

And everyone wanted beer....

“Tiamat, a fresh straw! I have a rabbit for you.”

“Not enough.” Rachel shook her head.

“Two rabbits, then. But only for the latest batch, with the extra honey.”

“Enki, you’ve already had too much. You can barely stand.”

“I don’t need to stand to drink!” Enki sat down, unsteady, on the bench Martin had set up outside his hut. He grinned, two teeth gone from a wrestling accident the night before. Tiamat handed him another jar of beer. Enki passed over two rabbits in payment. She looked at them, critically, felt them.

“All fur and no meat,” she complained. “Enki, I think you’ve cheated me.”

Unobtrusively, she scanned him with her knife handle.

Negative, Artie said. He was an expert with the causality tool by now. Tell him we need more wheat grain for the next batch.

“Enki,” Martin asked casually. “You ever go up by Lake Van?”

Enki made a face.

“It’s a long walk up there.”

Martin nodded.

“And the water’s no good,” Enki added. He sipped and smiled.

“Good beer.”

“Enki. Lake Van.”

“What? No, I never go there. Too salty Why?”

“I heard there was some new kind of wheat from up there.” Martin shrugged, pointed at the multiple vats of beer brewing behind him. “I always need more wheat. And if it tasted different, well, some people like to try different beers. A woman last night said Lake Van has the best wheat.”

Enki nodded.

“Talk to Nilik, down in the valley. His family lives close to Van and he always has plenty of wheat. Maybe you can make a trade.”

“Thanks.”

“Now that I’ve helped you,” Enki said, “I’d like to point out that my jar is getting a little empty....”

“My uncertainty is rising again.”

Which means we’re getting close.

“Which means I could just vanish in an eye blink,” Rachel said sharply.

Martin hesitated.

No, Artie said, instantly, in silent. I might not be able to read your mind, but I know how you think. I know what you’re going to say Don’t even start—

“We could wait,” Martin said slowly, “until you’re back uptime. With your mother.”

“With the Kehin,” Rachel said sharply. “Without you and Artie. Trapped in Qart-hadast.”

“There is that,” Martin admitted.

“More beer!” someone shouted from the crowd at the front of the hut. “More beer!”

“Martin, this is my friend Nilik,” Enki said. He sat down on the bench. Nilik stood beside him.

Nilik was sun-browned and wiry, medium height, a lined face and black haired with a few grey streaks. Uptime, Martin would have guessed he was a well-preserved grandfather. Here he was probably a medium-aged father.

He carried a small leather pouch on his belt. Martin smiled and waved him to sit on the bench next to Enki.

“Get Rachel,” Martin said, in silent.

Martin reached down and touched a small trough of beer.

Not that, Artie interrupted. The special beer. If this is the real thing we want to make sure he’s healthy and he makes it back to Lake Van.

Martin reached to the side, picked up a different trough. He placed it in front of both his customers and handed a pair of rye grass straws to Enki and Nilik.

“On the house,” he said. He sat down and slid his own straw into the beer. It tasted much like he remembered a wine cooler from uptime, sweet and sour, bubbly with a honey blur. There was also a slight metallic taste from tetracycline.

“Enki tells me you trade for wheat,” Nilik said after the first few sips.

“I do,” Martin said. He waved behind and around him. “I’m a flint knapper—”

“—best one in camp!” Enki boasted. And sipped more beer.

“—and I brew on the side,” Martin continued. Nilik studied him for a moment, took another sip of beer. He nodded slightly.

“I need a new knife. And a fresh spear point,” Nilik said.

“I need wheat. And honey and grapes,” Martin answered.

Nilik shook his head.

“No grapes. Some honey, but I didn’t bring it with me.”

“What did you bring with you?”

Nilik pulled the pouch off his belt and set it on the table. Martin unstrung the top, looked inside and spilled some of the wheat into his palm.

“Artie?” Martin asked, in silent.

Triticum monococcum—einkorn wheat, Artie said. Give me a minute. Maybe, maybe—

Rachel hurried back under the canopy. She smiled automatically at Enki and Nilik and stooped to whisper in Martin’s ear.

“Trouble.”

He looked up at her. She pointed uphill.

Ianna and two other people, a man and a woman, walked downhill. Ianna was on point, like a scout, leading the way. The man and woman were hard-faced, strongly built and tall. They looked uncomfortable in skin clothing. No one got in their way.

Well, they don’t quite fit in, do they? All they need is little plastic earpieces and dark suits and glasses.

“The Secret Service doesn’t exist yet,” Martin said dryly, in silent, to both of them.

Enforcers are enforcers, Artie said with an electronic shrug. Frumentarii or KGB or Inquisitors. The look is always the same.

“Chayil,” Rachel pointed at the woman. “And Kehin,” she pointed at the man.

How’s the causality?

Rachel touched her knife and stood up straight. She smiled, friendly, at Nilik and Enki.

“Off the charts,” she said calmly, in silent. “It must have drawn them here. Something big is ready to go, one way or the other.”

And we have a match! Artie shouted. Sodium transporter gene TmHKT1;5–A. Son of a bitch, Martin. We found it.

“Kill it,” Martin ordered, in silent. “All of it. Everything in this bag.”

Martin felt a slight vibration in his arm and ultraviolet flickered at the edge of his vision. His hand flashed warmer, just for a moment.

Done.

“Now infect Nilik.”

Martin felt his arm tingle. He reached out, casually, and moved his straw to a different part of the beer trough. He accidentally touched Nilik’s hand.

And... we have liftoff. Nilik is now infected with the pesticide 5-a gene killer virus, Artie said. Doesn’t hurt people but it loves your intestinal tract. He’ll be so full of pesticide by the time he gets home that he’ll kill every 5-a in his camp and every patch of it he goes near back at Lake Van.

“We won’t get it all,” Rachel said, regretfully, in silent. “Some of it will survive.”

“Some,” Martin agreed, also in silent. He glanced at Ianna and her posse. They were closing the distance to the hut. “My guess is the wheat with that gene is too dispersed to get it all. Enough will be left to be discovered one day in the far, far future. But we’re going to find out, right now, if we killed enough of it to make a timeline difference.”

“If I disappear...”

“Stay here, next to me. Artie, keep a link to her.”

It might not be enough....

“If anyone has a better idea—” Martin said, exasperated. It was an old argument from over the last few weeks. Rachel shook her head. Artie went carrier wave if-then blank for a mo ment, then back to normal. It was the best he could manage for a sigh.

Martin took a long drink of beer. At the end, he almost gagged on some of the scum from the bottom of the trough. Enki looked at the trough, disappointed, then up at Martin, hopeful.

“Another beer for every sack of grain,” Martin said to Nilik. “A full honeycomb for a spear point”

“Half a honeycomb for the spear point. One beer for every sack of grain,” Nilik countered, grudgingly.

Ianna and the Kehin and the Chayil were closer, pushing their way through the crowded paths. Martin wanted to grab Enki and Nilik and drag them away, to shove them out of the way, to kick them in the ass, to do anything to get them out of here—

“Done!” Martin agreed. He stood and held his hand open and up. Nilik looked surprised, then pleased. He placed his hand down and open. They shook.

“I need the grain and the honey as soon as you can get it,” Martin said. Ianna and the Carthaginians stepped under the canopy, stood next to Nilik and Enki.

“But—”

“Now.”

Enki and Nilik scowled, shrugged, then turned away and walked back into the crowd. Enki looked regretfully over his shoulder at Mar tin.

“Don’t forget me!”

Martin smiled and waved.

“Not bloody likely,” he said around his own smile.

“Mar, I’m sorry—”

“Quiet,” the Kehin man said to Ianna. His voice was low and soft and sharp. Martin remembered voices like that. Usually from people who wore uniforms with no rank insignia. Cheka, MSS, Kempeitai, Gestapo.

Like a snake, Artie said, in silent. Remember, back in that swamp...

“Get into them,” Martin ordered, in silent. “You know what we’re looking for. They might not have it exactly on them, but their weapons will use something similar. Break the encryption.”

“We’re still going up on uncertainty,” Rachel said, also in silent. Her voice was tight. She stood just behind and to the side of Martin. She held a flint knife.

“Don’t even think about it, little one,” the Chayil woman said. Up close, she was much bigger than Rachel, almost as big as Martin. She sounded amused, contemptuous.

“Officers,” Martin said, politely.

“You are not Chayil,” the Kehin said. The Chayil nodded. Ianna just looked miserable.

“Never said I was,” Martin said, mildly.

“You implied it!” the Kehin hissed. He gestured at Ianna. “Not just this one. Others told us the same story. You implied and acted and misled.”

“How can I control what others believe? That’s your business, isn’t it? I would hate to interfere.”

“You’re a leaker,” the Kehin hissed. He stared at Rachel. “Just like that one.”

“I am a leaker,” Martin admitted.

“Uncertainty just jumped again,” Rachel said in silent.

“When? Which timeline?” the Chayil asked.

I have it, Artie said triumphantly. Son of a bitch, I have it!

“Then use it, damn it!” Martin snapped, in silent. In the open, he leaned forward, hands on the table. The Kehin and the Chayil shifted a half step back, separated slightly, positioned themselves.

“I’m from a long time ago. And a long time forward,” Martin said. “And I’m not done yet.”

“Take him,” the Kehin ordered. The Chayil began to move forward. Martin stood, relaxed, but in position. The Chayil looked at him warily. Rachel stepped to the side and forward, toward the Kehin.

Done.

“Ianna,” Martin said, his eyes fixed on the Chayil. He pulled a small, tightly wound, package from his belt, tossed it to Ianna.

“Jump home. Now!”

“Mar, I can’t leave you! I love—”

“Now!”

Ianna hesitated. Rachel waved the causality handle in her direction and nodded frantically.

“Last chance,” Rachel whispered. “Please...”

Ianna’s eyes widened. She nodded and flickered uptime.

The Kehin glanced at where Ianna had been. His mouth tightened, and his eyes narrowed.

“Bitch! I’ll deal with her when we get back—”

“I don’t think so,” Martin said. He stood straight, dropped his fighting pose. “I don’t think you’ll ever see her again. I do wonder who and what you will see again. And when you’ll be.”

Nilik just reached his camp. He’s going through the wheat, putting it into sacks.

“Activate the gene killer.”

Now?

“Uncertainty just maxed out!” Rachel said.

“Now,” Martin said out loud. He spoke to the Kehin and the Chayil. “Goodbye.”

Activated.

The Kehin and the Chayil were gone.

Silence under the canopy. Rachel licked her lips and looked up at Martin. She touched herself, to make sure she was still real, then touched Martin.

Rachel, is that you, sweetheart?, a new voice asked.

“Mom?”

And a good time was had by all, Artie said smugly. I do believe we are going to be wending our way home tonight.

“The key was the salt resistant wheat,” Martin explained later that night. They sat around a fire outside the hut, the canopy tucked out of the way, the clear stars above them. Rachel rested comfortably against Martin, his arm around her.

“I don’t understand,” Rachel confessed. Her mother AI was activated, working her biology, making repairs to both Rachel and Artie. Martin heard her, in the background, through Artie, clucking in disapproval, murmuring and soothing both of them.

“In our timelines, Carthage fought three wars against Rome. Each time, the Carthaginians lost. Mainly because they only had a limited amount of arable land. Starvation hurt them much more than it did the Romans,” Martin said.

“But here?” Rachel asked.

“Here the people of Qart-hadast had the same geography, with the salt flats and the Chatt al Djerid salt lake south of them. But here they also had salt resistant wheat, descended from Nilik’s wheat, to grow on the salt plains. With that extra food, and Hannibal and Hasdrubal as generals, Carthage defeated Rome,” Martin explained.

“And now?”

“And now... I don’t know. The Carthaginian Travelers are gone from the camp. I don’t know who else is here instead. I don’t know the future of this timeline. But I know what it’s not going to be,” he said, and smiled.

This timeline is closer to what we’re all looking for, Artie said. Some of my self-repair algorithms work now.

“So now you’re not dying?”

I wouldn’t go that far, Artie said grudgingly. And Mom may have helped. A little.

“But can we now say that the rumors of your imminent demise were greatly exaggerated?”

I don’t know that reference.

“Then I’m not there yet,” Martin said. He looked up at the stars. “But I’m getting closer.”

The next day, Martin woke alone.

He dressed, stepped out of the hut. Rachel sat on a bench, a bowl of wheat gruel in her hand. She tipped her head toward another bowl. Martin picked it up, gratefully.

Her backpack, fully equipped, sat on the ground between her feet. He glanced at it, then over at her.

“I went forward last night, after you went to sleep,” she said.

“You wanted to see if you could go home?”

“Yes.”

“And?

Rachel shook her head. She ate another scoop of gruel.

“I can get closer, but then I’m blocked. Something is still wrong, uptime.”

Martin pointed to the pack on the floor.

“It’s not unpacked.”

“No.”

“You’re moving up there?”

Rachel put down her bowl.

“Yesterday, just before Artie unleashed the virus, you tossed something to Ianna.”

Martin hesitated, then shrugged.

“It was a bandeau, like the one you wear. She thought it had style, back when you told her to get out of here and go home. I had Asherah weave one for her.”

“One last present?”

“Something like that.”

“Because you always get what you want. Be cause you never give up. Which meant you had to leave her behind and you didn’t want her to forget you,” Rachel finished. She stood.

“I’m leaving for the same reason. I don’t want to get left behind, by anything you have to do back here. So I’m going uptime to wait for you. To me it will only be a few days. Mom says it will be easier to repair me, to keep me alive there. At least until you arrive.”

“Where is this place, this next roadblock of yours?” Martin asked.

“It’s named Catal Huyuk. It’s the first city in human history. Fascinating place,” Rachel said.

“Because it’s the first human city,” Martin said. He nodded. She looked at him, puzzled.

She shook her head.

“First cities,” she said and shrugged. “Not that interesting. Too many of them. First city in China, first city in India, first city in Aztlan. The usual Traveler crowd in all of them. A lot differ ent, but mostly the same.”

“In that case, what’s so interesting about this Catal place? Except that it’s as far as you can go.”

“No doors,” Rachel said. She adjusted her bandeau so it rested snugly, just above her breasts. “Thousands of people, and not a single door in the whole damned place. Just hatches and ladders and little, tiny, windows, way up high in the walls.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“Attracts Travelers like flies to honey. Always fresh data there,” Rachel said.

“When will you be there?”

“A week from Tuesday.”

Martin flicked Artie’s database.

“It’s over a hundred miles away from here.”

“That’s why I’ve got to start walking.”

Martin checked again. He dropped the connection.

“Catal peaks in 7000 BCE. That’s two thousand years from now.”

Rachel stepped forward, picked up her pack, and turned to leave camp. She looked back at him, over her shoulder.

“Then I suppose you better start living....”

A few minutes later, Martin filled his own backpack and stepped out into the sunshine.

And that’s it? Artie asked. We just leave the hut and the beer and everything else?

Martin shrugged.

“No archaeologist ever found any sign of permanent habitation anywhere around Gobekli Tepe, so we can’t stay here. A city might grow up around us. So, we leave. Enki and Asherah and Nilik can scavenge the hut and whatever is left. We can only use what we can carry. Everything else will gradually fall apart and rot and erode and be gone.”

And what are we going to do now? It’s not going to take us two thousand years to walk to Catal Huyuk. And I can’t see you sitting in one place for that long. What are we going to do in the meantime?

“I’ve always liked the water,” Martin said firmly. “The boat is already invented, but all the boats in all the world, right now, have to be paddled. Best evidence, though, is that sometime, in the next thousand or so years, someone, somewhere, is going to invent the sail. Maybe they’ll need a little help. And maybe some other people will need some help with some other ideas. Remember the old Japanese proverb Soichiro Honda used to use?”

It can’t be old, Artie grumbled. Japan hasn’t been invented yet. It’s just a bunch of starving people huddled in skin tents. And Honda’s not going to be born for another eleven thousand years!

Martin ignored him.

“‘Raise the sail with your stronger hand.’ Means you need to go after the opportunities where you can help the most.”

Martin started to walk down the hill, away from Gobekli Tepe.

“Now, Artie,” he said, and his voice faded away as he walked, “I see a whole world of opportunity out here for us. Yes, sir, a whole big world...”

Orbit of Fire, Orbit of Ice

Andrew Barton | 5745 words

Though she’d checked the safety tether, Chizuru Koyama burned with worry. Two kilometers away, MacPherson Skylab’s lights shone like an empty constellation, a wanderer adrift among all the stars in the sky. She bit down and exhaled until her lungs were empty. Just airlock jitters, she told herself. She’d been six months in orbit, and her spacesuit, fit snug to her skin, had no room for fear in it.

“Relative velocity at zero,” Layan Damji said from her perch in Sorairo Excelsior’s tiny cockpit. “You’re clear for transfer. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Copy that, I’m on the move.” Chizuru took one last breath and swam out of the airlock into open space. Once she was clear, she aimed herself at the empty station and pulsed her backpack thrusters until she was moving at an outfield jog. Though MacPherson Skylab looked no larger than a baseball this far away, if they’d only asked her to catch things its size, she’d never have needed to leave home. As much as she worried over the tether, it was only there because it was cheap enough to safeguard all that Sorairo Space Enterprises had invested in her.

“Don’t let yourself get lost,” Layan said. “It’s dangerous out here.”

From a distance, it had been beautiful—diamonds nailed to the wall of the Universe. The closer she got, the more Chizuru could see that MacPherson Skylab was a piece of junk, a ramshackle embarrassment of garbage flying in close formation that should’ve been deorbited twenty years ago. The suits Earthside would’ve argued over who owned what until the sun burned out if they could, but orbital mechanics had the last laugh—unless it was nudged, in another few hours it would crash into the polished mirror of the Manley Space Telescope, scattering both satellites’ guts across the sky like a newborn galaxy of bullets that’d never stop looking for something to kill.

“How’s the ship?”

“Autos are all green,” Layan said. “I’m coming out. Get the kettle boiling for me, would you?”

“Copy that,” Chizuru said. MacPherson Skylab was close now, and though she could kill her relative velocity just by letting herself slam into its side, if she didn’t bust something in her suit she might knock it into an orbit that’d cleave Challenger Station in two. Another pulse of thrust reduced her clip to centimeters per second, and she hooked the tether into MacPherson’s airlock anchor without her heart so much as whispering.

She could really do this.

Layan had made her way down the tether by the time Chizuru had found the airlock’s manual override. She pulled the handle for ward and felt a heavy thump resound through the skin of the station. The outer door shud dered open, and once she unhooked Excel sior’s tether from the station, she squeezed inside with Layan. It took some careful reposi tioning and accidental elbowing before she was in a position to shut the door again.

“This is the part I always liked best,” Layan said as they waited for fresh air to stream in. “I’m going to miss it.”

“You can have it,” Chizuru said. “I don’t see what’s so fun about being tinned up like readymeat.”

“Anticipation,” Layan said, her voice as dreamy as a poet’s. Had she really been a combat pilot down on Earth? Weren’t they supposed to be cold, hard, focused killing machines? “Being between where you are and where you’re going, not knowing what’s ahead. Who knows what the last people here left for us to find?”

“Their mess,” Chizuru said. The light above the inner door switched from red to green; the airlock was pressurized. “Let’s take a look.”

She went through first. Her flashlight cast a dim beam through the darkness, and her helmet came alive with warnings. There was no more sound inside the station than there had been outside, even with an atmosphere to carry it—the closeout crew had turned off the fans as well as the lights. It didn’t take long for her to find the master switch, and as the internal lights flickered on for the first time in years, she took a moment to take in the mess they’d left for her to clean.

“I suppose they weren’t expecting strangers,” Layan said. “I’ll get the systems booted up. Do a tour, see if anything’s out of sorts.”

“Copy,” Chizuru said. “What a sad sack of shit this place is.”

The station had been stripped of anything that had been worth the expense of shipping it up from Earth in the first place. At least the rows of empty experiment racks stood in evidence that the place had ever done anything of value. As she drifted through the modules, she found a broken guitar, half a dozen dead plants, a chipped shot glass that claimed she and New Jersey were perfect together, and the general detritus of a long-abandoned outpost gone to ruin.

“No problems, though. That’s good,” Layan said once she reported back. “Have you ever seen the Manley? That’s a fine piece of engineering there.”

“So fine it’s got no capacity to dodge us.”

“Then you should be proud to have the honor of saving it. Protecting the helpless and all that.”

“Wow,” Chizuru said. “You even talk like that when nobody important is listening.”

“We all have our habits,” Layan said as the station’s fans powered on. “Right, life support looks functional, air pressure is nominal. We might as well use up their oxygen for now.”

Chizuru took off her helmet and took in a deep breath of cold, stagnant air that tasted like a bucket of dusty mud, but at least her universe wasn’t stuffed into an overdeveloped goldfish bowl. She closed her eyes and stepped back to Tokushima’s playing fields, to hot sunlight above and cool dirt below—a life ago. A life that wasn’t hers anymore.

“I think Mission Control will start riding us if we wait any longer,” Layan said. “Shizuoka, this is Skylab. Crew transfer complete, the board is yours.”

“Copy that, Skylab,” said the flight communicator down in Mission Control. “The board is green, we have control. Don’t worry, she’ll be back before you know it.”

Chizuru pushed to a foggy but functional window and found Excelsior as it began to accelerate away, a white swan swimming in earthlight. It was off to retrieve someone else’s egg, an experimental greenhouse module that had racked up four years of free orbit, and her bosses couldn’t resist the opportunity to claim two bounties on a single mission.

“Great,” Chizuru said. “Eight hours full of nothing on a nothing wreck. They were right, this is one hell of an adventure.”

“Anything’s an adventure if you look at it in the right way,” Layan said between bites of a chocolate bar. “These six years I’ve been up here—best adventure I could’ve asked for. I’m almost sad it’s got to end, but you wouldn’t want me around taking up space for much longer anyway. Don’t you ever miss having real gravity?”

“I got used to it,” Chizuru said. Challenger Station was big enough to have a sports room, and she went there from time to time to practice catching baseballs—at least there she could convince herself she only missed because of the Coriolis effect. “Earth isn’t much. Just a big clump of dirt.”

“I see,” Layan said. Chizuru didn’t turn to look, but her voice sounded just slightly deflated. If that was enough to puncture her, no wonder she’d given up running. “Let’s get this place in order, then.”

The first four hours went by with as many words from Chizuru that weren’t about their work. If that put Layan ill at ease, dodging barely answered questions as they ricocheted off the bulkheads like bullets inscribed with a lifetime’s regrets, Chizuru was satisfied. Space wasn’t a place for idle conversation. The reason all the dirt was on Earth was so that nobody in orbit would start digging it up, looking for things rightly hidden.

Chizuru was in the habitation module, feeling the fabric of a sleeping bag and wondering what dreams it had eaten, when she heard the keening wail of a pitiful flock of birds singing for death. She pushed away, questions forgotten—dreams were the first things to go silent before the radiation alarms.

“What is it, what’s going on?” Chizuru asked once she found Layan at their makeshift command center—one computer that Layan had brought across and plugged into the station. Layan wasn’t smiling, and that unsettled her more than the alarms could have, like someone had erased and rewritten part of the world.

“Word just came in from the weather network,” Layan said. “There’s a storm bearing down on us. S-4.”

Chizuru bit her lip. Every so often, the sun pitched a fit and spat radiation across the inner system. It would be just another Tuesday down on Earth thanks to the magnetic field, but up here—she shuddered, thankful their transfer hadn’t been by the light of an angry star.

“How’s our magnetic shield?”

“Up and holding, we should be fine in here,” Layan said. “Don’t worry about a thing, we’ll only have to visit the doctors back in the Wheel. It’s just one more unexpected adventure.”

“Right,” Chizuru said. She smiled at Layan and hoped she couldn’t read the fear underneath it.

Chizuru was minding the emptiness while Layan took a nap when the call came in from Earth, scratchy and cold like a skeleton’s fingers on her back.

“Skylab, this is Shizuoka, we’ve had a problem.”

“This is Skylab, say again, Shizuoka.” Maybe she’d misheard. Perhaps someone else’s transmission was cutting over theirs. Problems happened all the time in orbit, and thankfully not always the kind that killed the people they happened to.

“Skylab, we’ve registered a severe problem aboard Excelsior,” Shizuoka said. She didn’t know the names of anyone down there—they rotated by so quickly, there was no one to hold onto—but the woman on the other end spoke like she was pouring out a pot of bitter tea. “We’re reading a full GNS software failure. Be advised that Excelsior will no longer rendezvous with you as per flight plan.”

“Copy, Shizuoka, advise revised timeframe for rendezvous,” Chizuru said. That was the problem with automated ships—they worked great until they didn’t, and there was only so much that could be fixed by a remote team Earthside. “I read four-zero-two mikes to collision.”

“Negative, Skylab, we are unable to advise at this time,” the Shizuoka controller said. “Maintain station and course correction readiness until further notice. Out.”

“Not like I’m going anywhere else,” Chizuru said once she’d cut the connection. Regret had not, as she’d thought, flown like a bird, needing winds to glide on. It had followed her into space easily, swooping and twisting around her in patterns that defied action and reaction. She’d even gone to the old man at the Greensward Arms, listened to him speak words like crumbling parchment, and put out a bowl of tears for it to drink. Nothing had changed. Her bones still ached when she let herself remember, when regret dove through the bulkhead and sunk its claws into her.

“Is everything all right?” Layan drifted in from the habitation module. Better to soak up the station’s dreams before they burned. “I heard you talking.”

“Just an update from Mission Control,” Chizuru said. “They wanted to go over some maintenance issues.”

“Really.” Layan pursed her lips. “Anything we should be worried about?”

“Not as such,” Chizuru said. Either Sorairo Excelsior would be back to pick them up, or it wouldn’t—there was nothing she could do about it, and there was no sense in stoking her pet regret’s hunger. “Things’ll be right, soon enough.”

“You’re sure you couldn’t use some rest?”

“I’ll be fine,” Chizuru said. “Go on. Dream about Earth some more.”

She watched indecision drift across Layan’s face—had she been up here long enough, been through enough challenges to know when one was being kept back from her? After a moment, the other woman gave a shrug and pushed back out of sight. Chizuru waited until she’d gone to switch one earphone to her music. The latest Seven Minutes of Terror track had dropped just before they’d left Challenger Station.

It sounded appropriate.

“What the fuck is your problem, astronaut?”

Chizuru had known Layan would find out about the delay no matter what she had or hadn’t said. Even so, her words were a desert tornado, brisk and harsh and full of sharp edges.

“What the fuck does it matter?” Layan had dynamited the dam, and Chizuru felt no reason to hold back. Besides, profanity in English tasted so good. “If it wasn’t for those corporate jackoffs trying to maximize their bottom line, we’d be back in the Wheel by now! So we’re stuck here. Do you have some magic computer in your pocket that can reboot the ship? Or would you rather just stew in your goddamn fear until you’re boiling alive in it?”

“Don’t act like you know everything!” Layan was spewing so much sound and spittle, Chizuru was surprised she wasn’t starting to spin in the station’s freefall. “I’m the damned mission commander, not you! You had no right to withhold information that important!”

“Well excuse me for living, then! I guess if you’d been CAPCOM for Arianrhod 4, you’d have told them you all were rolling dice to figure out if they’d survive reentry! God forbid I not tell you something that doesn’t impact the mission!”

“Don’t be dim, of course it impacts the mission!” Layan spat. “We can’t deorbit the station if we’re still on it!”

“Can’t we?” She spoke without emotion, her lips the covers of a book written by someone centuries dead.

“That’s bugs,” Layan said. “Do you want to commit suicide?”

“No,” Chizuru said. “Do you want to fail? Did you come out here just to say in the end that you’re not going to do your duty?”

“How dare you,” Layan said. “You know nothing about duty.”

“Our responsibility to everyone in orbit,” Chizuru said. “Look at the Manley, and consider this shitheap. A hundred tons of debris in waiting. It’d take decades for all that junk to fall out of the sky on its own. How many other stations do you think it’d shred before then? How many people?”

“I—” Layan swallowed whatever curse boiled in her throat and turned away. “I was supposed to go back down tomorrow.”

“I know,” Chizuru said. She drifted to one of the alarm panels, still pulsing its radiation warning, and flicked it with one finger as if that was all it’d take to fix things. “This is all bullshit, pure goddamned bullshit. But we’ve got to deal with it. The mission’s more important than either of us.”

“Imagine about how many times that’s been said before suicide missions,” Layan said. “They might fix it in time.... there’s still a rendezvous window.”

“Remote maintenance isn’t exactly noted for its speed,” Chizuru said. “They wouldn’t tell us if they couldn’t. They’d wait until the last possible minute. Hell, if we died, their stock might go down a whole quarter of a point.”

“Then we need another option,” Layan said. “I want as many new avoidance orbits as you can verify, right down to the last minute. Scrape off some of that telescope’s finish if you have to. Just give me an alternative. My wife would be very cross if I left her waiting any longer.”

Chizuru spent an hour dancing between equations, riding orbit after altered orbit until she found ones that didn’t end in a cloud of debris or a slingshot to Jupiter. She couldn’t help but keep one eye on the list of orbits that got shorter every minute, the list that started with Sorairo Excelsior and the precious experimental garden module taking up space in its cargo bay.

“Are you kidding?” Layan said when she’d finished going over the recommendations. “Most of these are deorbits.”

“Too much trash in the sky,” Chizuru said. “Lateral move, at best, if we save the Manley and wreck Mackenzie-Souris Orbital.”

“This can’t really be it,” Layan said. “There’s got to be another way. No other ships in range?”

“At this inclination?” Chizuru shook her head. “If they don’t come through downstairs, we can look forward to a great new career as particulate ash.”

“I can’t accept that,” Layan turned toward the window and gazed out at the stars. If only they could nail the station to the sky, like the constellation it had been before they’d come aboard. “How long will it take?”

“We’ll have time,” Chizuru said. “Enough for you to make things right.”

The hours drifted by, tasting of bile and dust, as the window narrowed to a crack. Like an overheated car in summer, it wouldn’t be enough to keep them alive for long.

“Shizuoka, Skylab, request update,” Layan said.

“They’re working like demons down here, Skylab,” the Shizuoka controller said. “I wish I had better news to give you.”

“Copy that, Shizuoka,” Layan said. “I—” Layan caught herself and hesitated for a moment before continuing on. Chizuru watched a tear fly out of her eye, and when the light hit it she saw a rainbow folded into itself. “I wonder if you could arrange a connection with my wife.”

Chizuru pushed away while Layan talked between tears, to set up the avoidance burn. It didn’t feel right, deep in her mind, that she couldn’t at least narrow her eyes at the Manley Space Telescope before she threw herself into the fire so that it could live. It was probably on the other side of the planet. Why couldn’t it just stay there, and not throw itself in their way? The station’s monopropellant tanks would be dry once they were done. A couple more passes through space, for old time’s sake, and then her back would bubble from the fire in the sky.

The last-ditch reminder, the one she’d hoped to only see on an intercept orbit with Challenger Station, flashed—the four-minute warning. It scarcely made a difference to her. Whether she fired the thrusters or didn’t, where her life would end up was out of her control. From the moment she’d stepped out of Sorairo Excelsior’s airlock, Newton’s cold hand had taken hers, like she was once again a child being led around the Sapporo Snow Festival.

“It’s all ready.” She closed her hand around their duplicate of the station’s plastic key, without which it was uncontrolled junk.

“I know,” Layan said. “Do it.”

“Shizuoka, this is Skylab.” She could feel her heart pounding in her throat, in her wrists, behind her eyes. “Preparing to commence avoidance burn in three, two, one, mark.”

Part of her hoped the 3D printer back on the Wheel had made an error, that they’d been given the wrong design, or its teeth had been sharpened in just the right way so that it wouldn’t catch. That she could have a few more minutes of life without falling out of the sky.

The key’s hungry teeth caught, and she felt a burst of acceleration shudder through the station’s skin.

“Shizuoka, avoidance burn is in progress,” Chizuru said. “Tell the world their telescope is safe.”

The thrusters’ rattle cut off after a few more minutes, and Chizuru was tempted to turn the fans off as well. Tombs were supposed to be silent.

“We read you on an avoidance trajectory, Skylab.” Chizuru could hear the defeat in the other woman’s voice, could taste her ashen words. “We’re arranging your requests down here. If there’s anyone you’d like to speak to, Koyama...”

“No.” Chizuru closed her eyes. “Not today.”

“We’ve, er... we’ve got some good news for you as well, down here.” Chizuru sighed. Were they suddenly immune to fire and it was a miracle? “IT says Excelsior is semi-responsive again. Too bad they couldn’t have done it a couple of hours ago.”

“Too bad, I...” She was balanced on the edge of a dark hole, and the sharp rocks of the cliff had left her feet bloody, but she hadn’t thrown herself in yet. It would be stupid to jump.... “Wait one, Shizuoka.”

She pushed across the station to one of the radiation alarms, still pulsing its sickly orange light, and read the number off the station’s own detectors. Not nearly as high as it had been at the height of the storm. Their orbit of fire didn’t linger in the Van Allen belt, either—she might not need a nightlight for a month until the doctors flushed her system out, but when wasn’t darkness preferable to light?

“That’s it!” She slammed her fist against the bulkhead and broke the air with a clap. “Layan! I’ve got another option for you.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Layan said. They’d squeezed back into the airlock, breathing the cool, tasteless air they’d brought along. “I’ve never...”

“Nobody has,” Chizuru said. “Think of it this way: you’ll have an incredible story for your wife when you get back.”

“It’s still warped.”

“Oh, entirely,” Chizuru said. “Shizuoka, this is Skylab, we are go for EVA.”

“Copy that, Skylab,” Shizuoka said. “Satellite radio relay is established. Expect you to make contact again in one-five mikes.”

“One-five mikes, I copy,” Chizuru said. “Until later, Shizuoka.”

The last second twisted in on itself, and Chizuru felt like she could live an entire life stuffed into that airlock. That’d be the most sensible thing, right? Not to jump out of a safe harbor—no matter that it would be ash soon enough—and give herself over to the angry, cold-toothed gods of space?

She pulled the manual release. Time unfolded, and they swam out into open space. She secured herself to Layan with tethers, so that they were flying helmet-to-helmet. At least they’d die together, if it came to that. Below them, MacPherson Skylab dropped away. All that surface area just gave the wind more things to grab onto and slow down. In their small, streamlined spacesuits, the two women would only slowly fall out of the sky.

“How are you feeling?” Chizuru asked.

“I don’t understand you,” Layan said. “We might be about to die, and I’m terrified. How can you be so calm about it all?”

“I’ve been ready for this for four years,” Chizuru said. “Die enough times in your sleep, and the reality gets easier to handle.”

“Then tell me about it.”

“Layan, I—”

“If we are about to burn up, I don’t want to have to think about it,” Layan said. “Talk to me. Please.”

“Okay,” Chizuru said. “Did you see the new episode of Hunt Bowman? That archery’s unreal.”

“Stars above, you have a deep problem,” Layan said. “You can’t die like this. It’s foolish.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” Chizuru said. Then her mouth began to move on its own, no matter how much she screamed at it to stop, no matter that pulling that jagged blade out of her throat was as painful as it had been going in. It all came out, an explosive decompression of the soul. Her family, her childhood dreams on Tokushima’s playing fields, the game that determined if she was the woman the Shikoku Falcons had been looking for.

“It should’ve been easy,” Chizuru said. She could feel the breeze on her face, the warmth of the sun, the rough ground beneath her cleated shoes. “That guy they had on bat... it’s like he was an oni with an aluminum club, and he hit it right to me. I shouldn’t have had a problem, everyone was watching, I jumped, and I missed. So close that I could feel it go. Decided the game right there.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard,” Layan said. “They couldn’t have expected perfection.”

“They wanted it,” Chizuru said. “It’s like up here. We’ve all got to be perfect all the time or someone dies. Or has to jump for their life.”

“You can’t blame yourself for not being perfect,” Layan said. “Nothing of this world is.”

“That shattered my chances,” Chizuru said. “My family was in the stands, I could see they were disappointed in me, so I let them go without me. That was the day of that big cyberattack. Fourteen thousand, six hundred and ninety-three cars across Japan got compromised. Including theirs.”

Chizuru bit down on her grief. It wouldn’t do for salty tears to start flying around inside her helmet. The cold fire of her loss burned that much brighter, and her right index finger went numb with remembered pain.

“This shit isn’t supposed to happen anymore,” Chizuru said. “What’s the point of a computer if it isn’t perfect? It got them and now it’s come back for us.”

“There’s still time,” Layan said. “We still have the will to make it. That’s more than can be said about any computer.”

“Skylab, this is Shizuoka, come in.” Time, crumpled and tossed away when they’d jettisoned themselves from the airlock, had flown more quickly than Chizuru thought. “Astronaut Damji, astronaut Koyama, please respond.”

“You take it,” Layan said. “This is your show.”

“Shizuoka, Koyama here, I read you,” Chizuru said. “We both read you. Tell us some good news.”

“We have confirmation of rendezvous possibility for next perigee,” the Shizuoka controller said. “It’ll be tight. If you miss the rendezvous, Excelsior will not have the ability to meet you again. Also be advised that the experiment module is occupying most of Excelsior’s cargo bay.”

“Does that leave room for us?”

“Our simulations suggest it’s doable.” How many simulations they’d had to run, and how many had ended with Chizuru and Layan trapped on a decaying orbit or reduced to paste against Excelsior’s cargo bay, was the question she left unasked. “They’ve recommended that you guide it in yourself—the navigation software isn’t functioning as well as we’d like.”

“I didn’t think it would be easy.” Chizuru exhaled, but even if her worry could be carried away with her breath, there was nowhere for it to go. “What’s your name down there, Shizuoka?”

“Ai,” the woman said after a second’s hesitation. “Ai Nakano.”

“Thank you, Ai,” Chizuru said in Japanese. “If anything happens, it’s not your fault.”

They fell faster than bullets flew, and Chizuru wondered if her ancestors had felt like this when they’d gone off to war. The last minutes of boredom crept past before the terror of rendezvous, and if she missed the ship, it was the last boredom she was liable to ever have. She didn’t intend to wait for death to chase her down if she did miss—she’d meet it on her own terms, eyes open and uncovered.

“Do you think they’ve told anyone?” Layan asked. “About us.”

“Not a word,” Chizuru chuckled. “If we make it, nobody needs to know how close things almost came, and if we don’t... hell, there are plenty of ways for people to die up here that wouldn’t drive the stock down. You didn’t think the company cares about us as people, did you?”

“Of course not,” Layan said. “It’s just... I’d feel more comfortable if I knew people were praying for us, at least. I didn’t even tell Ruqayya. She’ll never forgive me if this goes wrong, but I couldn’t bear to have her carry our weight by herself.”

“If you’re interested in prayer, pray that damn computer doesn’t biff out again.” Would she have felt better if some well-rested, life-assured, crackerjack pilot down on Earth guided the ship in? True, this way she had control, and wouldn’t have to worry about more than microsecond lag... but would’ve been one thing if some pilot she’d never met screwed up. Layan’s life, and her own, had no one to blame but her.

“What’s she like?” Chizuru asked. “Your wife, I mean. Ruqayya.”

“She’s perfect,” Layan said. “Funny, intelligent, beautiful. Kind like a spring wind. I can close my eyes and see her, the last afternoon we had in Amman before I came up.”

“Good, stay with that,” Chizuru said. “Hold onto that. You’ll be seeing her again soon.”

“Skylab, this is Shizuoka,” Ai’s voice was soft and gentle, reminding Chizuru of birdsongs she might never hear. “We’re at one-zero mikes to rendezvous. Relative velocity—” Chizuru confirmed the figures projected against her helmet’s view as Ai read them off, and found them in accord. “You’re all set. Just get that down below ten meters per second if you want your bones to be in one piece.”

“Copy that,” Chizuru said. “Taking control now.”

Her view of space fell away, overwritten by a ghostly feed from Sorairo Excelsior’s cockpit. It wasn’t exactly like being in the pilot’s seat, and she was used to a view that had more perspectives than just the ship’s nose-mounted camera, but she could only handle so much input at once. It was like she was wearing the ship—no, like she was the ship.

There was no sensation of speed. Why would there be? She was riding an orbit of ice, cold and invisible and smooth. The cargo bay doors were open wide, stubby wings far too small to keep it flying, with a few meters of clearance on either side with room for them to fall. The module was an inflatable, but it wouldn’t break their fall—those balloons were meant to laugh at bullets.

“Layan,” she said. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Layan said. “Just breathe. Are you breathing?”

“Try to go limp,” Chizuru said. “Don’t worry, you’re behind me. I’ll absorb most of the impact.”

“What are you saying? You can’t! Twist around, I’ll—”

“You’ll live!” Chizuru shouted. “Don’t you get it? You have someone to go back to! I don’t have anyone!”

“Don’t be a fool!” Layan shouted just as loudly. “You have yourself!”

There was no more room for encouragement or fear. Her suit was stuffed to bursting with everything she’d carried through space. She could only stare at the indicators, the miniature crosshair that indicated their own position, and make sure it didn’t drift too far. They were too far out for anything else—fine corrections could only be done in the last few seconds before rendezvous, or the ship might miss them entirely.

“Two minutes,” Layan said. The ship was close enough now she could’ve seen it, the brightest star in the sky shooting right toward them, coming to grant the only wish that mattered.

One minute. The crosshair was drifting. Come on, come on...

“I believe in you,” Layan said. “You’re not going to miss.”

Chizuru blinked, and she found herself on a dark reflection of the field in Tokushima. Though her failure had been by daylight, now the game was being played under a night sky impossibly bright with stars. The batter was there, but no longer a man—an oni as if he’d walked out of folklore, complete with fiery hair and inhuman horns, his frozen skin ugly as death. He grinned at her and swung his heavy iron club. With a crack a ball appeared from nowhere and shot on a high arc toward her.

She dashed ahead and leaped, raising her gloved hand as high as she dared. She expected to fall, but kept flying higher, so high the ground disappeared into blackness beneath her, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the ball, small and smooth and worn.

She felt it thud against her fingers, and she was back in orbit again.

“No,” Chizuru said. She could still feel the phantom ball in her hand. “I won’t.”

For these last few seconds, she was the ship, and that made her feel better—even if she missed, the ship would live. Its fuel cell stack was her beating heart, its computer her twisted brain, its reaction thrusters her icy breath. She made adjustments by faith and instinct as the empty space between them charged from thousands of meters to hundreds of meters and tens of meters. She could see herself from her camera eye, a strange marionette wrapped in orange, gesturing and flailing. The thrusters blew space one last kiss, and then there was no more time for adjustments.

There was a lifetime left for regret.

She slammed against something cold and hard, and the world curled back to her heartbeat and breath and pain.

Challenger Station was the second-biggest thing humans had built beyond Earth, and it hid plenty of places a woman could lose herself in. Chizuru Koyama had intended to drift through as many as she could once they let her out of the infirmary, from the card tables and game machines of the Earthlight Casino to the delicately managed wildness in the Greensward, but in no time at all she found herself in the Indigo Dorms, knocking on a door that for now still showed Layan Damji’s name.

“Good to see you, Chizuru,” Layan said. She gave her a hug and invited her in. It wasn’t much—more of a storage compartment than a room, only slightly larger than Chizuru’s own. “How are you coming along?”

“I’m living,” she said. The room was empty, its limited furniture stowed in the walls. There were no personal touches left, no remnants of the life that had been lived there, just an empty space that echoed with lost possibilities. “So this is it, then?”

“Packed my bags.” Layan nodded at a corner, where a purse lay atop a small duffel bag. “All ready for zero hour. It’s not like I gathered much crap up here anyway.”

“We all move too fast.” Chizuru said. “We leave things behind.”

“That’s the way of the world,” Layan said. “Come on. I’ve still got some time before my flight.”

They shared a walk around the ring, where spin gravity gave an approximation of Earth. At a curtained booth, they took a triptych of photos together, and they drank hot tisanes at Bee’s. Still, it wasn’t long before they pushed out of the lift into the docking module’s freefall, and for an instant, Chizuru was stung with the fear of recollection. That she’d drift and keep drifting and nobody would be there to catch her.

“I guess this is goodbye, then,” Chizuru said. “I mean, I’ve never been to Jordan.”

“Something to consider once you return to Earth, then,” Layan said. “You will come back, right? You’re not going to spend your entire life up here?”

“I wasn’t kidding back there,” Chizuru said. “I don’t have anyone left.”

“That’s a lie right there,” Layan said. “You’ve got me. I owe you my life. I couldn’t have done what you did.”

“I’m...”— sure you could have, Chizuru wanted to say, but even the thought of it tasted bitter. “... glad it turned out,” she finished, with barely a perceptible break.

“You should be,” Layan said. “Defining yourself by loss only leads to dark places. You’ve a chance to turn all that around. Please, give it a try. For me.”

“All right.” Chizuru hesitated for a moment, then took Layan in a hug. “Take care of yourself. Ruqayya’s waiting for you.”

“And you.” Layan frowned for a moment, then patted a pocket and smiled. “I almost forgot... I have something for you. Think of it as something to help put you on a new path.”

Layan drew it out by a plastic string, and Chizuru couldn’t help but chuckle. The plastic key from MacPherson Skylab, the one she’d turned to start its burn, the last relic of a burned-up station. She bowed her head and wore it like a necklace.

“I’ll remember,” Chizuru said. “Thanks.”

Layan smiled, then pushed away into the sleeve down to the shuttle. Chizuru found a camera feed and watched it undock from the station and thrust away until it was just another star.

Andrew Barton is a Canadian author who, in addition to his Analog appearances, has had work published in On Spec magazine and multiple anthologies from Bundoran Press. He has never been to space. You can look him up at actsofminortreason.com or on Twitter at @ActsofAndrewB.

Long Haul

Marie DesJardin | 4438 words

Illustrated by Josh Meehan

Space is a well of loneliness, and Jubrin had spent too many days and years staring at it from behind her flight panel. When the Portran port authority delayed the departure of her latest long haul, Jubrin decided to spend the unexpected layover surrounded by people.

The tube took Jubrin to the vast Portran marketplace, expelling her from the controlled activity of the spacedock into a bubble bursting with noise and color. She stepped into the swirling cacophony, uneasy as a lioness thrust into a garish circus. The scents alone were overwhelming; complex and pungent after months of breathing recirculated air. The wide streets thronged with people, their combined voices merging into one great boom that bounced off the high ceiling dome to reverberate against her ears. The narrow stores clustered side by side down the long, straight walk, fronted by a haphazard array of carts and stalls placed as if to deliberately impede progress and add to the general confusion.

Having little interest in the baubles the majority of vendors offered, Jubrin let the whims of the crowd set her course. Mostly she watched the people: the matron with the lilac dress, her hair dyed the same color—in what Jubrin now recognized as Portran high fashion; the solemn young miner in a tight-fitting jacket, rubbing his chin as he pondered a row of knives. Distracted, Jubrin formed her own temporary obstacle in the human river, until the impatient crowd pushed her on.

Feeling purposeless and isolated, Jubrin was relieved to stumble across a zooery. Although fond of animals, she thought it cruel to coop up a pet in a spacecraft, so had never acquired one. Ducking into the shop, Jubrin found the usual collection of traditional ship companions, cats and cockatoos, along with spiders, reptiles, various water creatures, and those small furry squeakers from Magus III that people had decided were cute and now turned up everywhere. Far in the back, though, where two sadfaced dogs pressed their damp noses to the bars, Jubrin found something new.

It looked like a cross between an octopus and a comb jelly, about the size of a guinea pig. Six long whitish arms lay limply along the bottom of the birdcage that housed it, but its skin was translucent. Jubrin could see speckles of darker matter moving within, as if the whole interior of the creature oozed with a slow-moving fluid. A deflated sack between the tentacles housed a brownish blob; Jubrin couldn’t decide if she was looking at its brain or its partly digested lunch.

“Help you?”

The man’s voice made her jump. Jubrin found the shopkeeper standing just behind her. Despite his vibrant red suit and hair, his manner was gentle and his eyes kind.

Jubrin indicated the whitish creature. “What is it?”

“Traders call them ‘zorzifore.’ Don’t think they’ve been classified yet.” He popped the latch and reached inside to pick the animal up. The tentacles turned whiter as they shrank from the man’s touch.

“What do they eat?

” “They don’t, actually.” The keeper used both hands to lift the creature from the cage. “They make their own food. A little light to manufacture nutrients, and they’re set. Perfect for space travel.” The zorzifore had contracted to half its original size. The shopkeeper held out the shrunken blob to her.

Expecting it to be cold, Jubrin touched a hesitant finger to its shiny skin. The creature was quite warm. Surprised, Jubrin stroked it. The nearest limb uncurled the tiniest bit, then waved slightly in response to her stroking.

There was something so pathetic in that timid response, Jubrin’s heart wept. Here was a creature light years from its home, separated from others of its kind, locked in a cold cage with some stupid made-up name and no way to communicate what it really was. But Jubrin knew. Even in such an alien form as this, like recognized like.

“Nirmalia,” she whispered, somehow knowing it for the creature’s name even as she spoke.

The creature, who had been nearly rigid, suddenly became fluid and soft. Its whiteness relaxed into clarity. A probing limb tickled up her arm, and the creature poured itself from the man’s hands to her own. Its many limbs hugged her, climbing up her arm to cling at last about her neck with the complete, undeserved trust of a child. The warm, central sack draped just over her breastbone.

The shopkeeper laughed. “Looks like you’ve made a friend.”

Jubrin could only touch the creature wonderingly. Each tentacle curled around her finger when she stroked it, like a little hand hugging back. The skin that appeared so jellylike was soft, smooth, terribly vulnerable. Jubrin said simply, “How much?”

The walk back to her ship with Nirmalia clinging around her neck had Jubrin impishly elated. People stopped, stared—even backed away. Jubrin found it hard not to laugh as she carried the slick-looking creature to her ship, Nirmalia jiggling like some transparent tumor on her chest.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she murmured, giving her new companion a pat. “They’ve never seen a zorzifore either.”

Nirmalia blushed a deeper shade of gray at her words. Jubrin exulted inside. She hadn’t known she’d wanted a companion until now; Nirmalia’s wholehearted acceptance was balm to her aching heart.

Over time, their initial rapport only deepened. As Nirmalia climbed about the cabin, exploring with soft, tentative fingers, Jubrin watched with fond delight. From Nirmalia’s attitude, posture, and color, Jubrin learned to interpret: bored, languorous, content, mischievous. Even when Nirmalia lay sleeping, Jubrin sensed a connectedness, a link that made her smile in deep contentment.

It was three years before Jubrin again docked at Portran. Jubrin left Nirmalia playing in the air above the copilot’s seat, one arm clinging to the overhead strut and the rest draped like some improbable spider web over the back of the chair. Dockside, the port authority haggled over her manifest longer than usual, so the offloading should have been well underway by the time Jubrin got back to the ship.

Except, it wasn’t. The containers were loaded, but the transport pads stood idle, driverless. Perplexed, Jubrin walked down the wide tube that connected the orbiting station to her ship. She turned toward the cargo hold, but something inside the hatch made her pause. Her heart beat faster. Without knowing why, Jubrin instead headed toward the control room. Partway there, she heard masculine laughter ripple down the corridor. She began to run.

Two men leaned toward the copilot’s chair, their backs to the door. With a shock that ran like lightning through her body, Jubrin saw the smaller one poke with a cargo rod at the seat of the chair.

“What are you doing?”

The men spun around. The bigger one blinked in surprise, then touched his cap. The one holding the stick stepped back guiltily.

The big one cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Captain. We came forward to verify the manifest. We, uh, saw your jellyfish here and were just...”

In two strides Jubrin stepped between them and looked into the chair. Nirmalia was contracted into a hard, white ball. One of her tentacles was creased, as from sharp pressure.

Jubrin rounded on the stick-wielding man, her jaw clenched. He held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, but the effect was spoiled by his unrepentant smirk. “I didn’t hurt it.”

The big one tried to intercede. “Really, ma’am, he only just poked at it a bit.”

Jubrin wanted to beat the sneer off the smaller man’s face. Hardly trusting herself to speak, she forced herself to growl, “Get out.”

The big one held out a tally pad. “If you’ll just confirm—”

At her furious gaze, the man froze. Slowly, his mouth shut. Wordlessly, he shuffled toward the door, gesturing for the other man to follow. He did so, sidling past Jubrin close enough to brush against her body with his.

“You’re sick,” he hissed. “Letting a slimy thing like that run loose on your ship.”

Too stunned by his coarseness to react, the moment she should have hit him passed—and by then the big man was bundling his companion out the exit. Jubrin stood trembling in the vacated room, air tainted with the stink of sweat, listening to the hateful sound of the small man’s giggle echo off the bare walls of the corridor.

No one had ever violated Jubrin’s control room before, except that purser on Derinus, and he had been a gentle man. Nirmalia had even responded to his shy petting, stretching out a lazy tentacle that terrified and thrilled the man at the same time. Now Jubrin’s hands shook so badly she could hardly pick Nirmalia up. She seated herself in the copilot’s chair and stroked her, willing her friend to uncoil. “It’s okay,” she whispered. But in her current state, Jubrin could not convey reassurance. She kept grinding her teeth, wishing she had hit that man, dashing the smirk off his face with her fist.

As soon as she regained her composure, Jubrin reported the incident, demanding a different crew. The port authority was its harassed, querulous self. There were no other crews. Most of their personnel had shipped out for Yamago colony, and they hadn’t trained sufficient replacements.

“But they came forward without permission. At least give them a reprimand.”

“If your pet had been locked up like it should have been...” began the nasal response.

Jubrin clicked off, dissatisfied. Not daring to leave Nirmalia alone, she carried her friend with her to the negotiating table. It added an element of surprise to the proceedings, but Jubrin sold her cargo and got the goods she wanted for an acceptable price.

When she returned to the dock, the big foreman, DevRiso by name, was so polite and subdued in his manner that Jubrin found herself forgiving him. He had a labored way of dealing with any issue that led Jubrin to conclude he was slightly simple. But the small man, Halik, remained belligerently defiant, constantly setting her teeth on edge. Fortunately, DevRiso kept him out of her way.

That evening, Jubrin took Nirmalia with her to a portside lounge. Her friend seemed to have recovered and lay in a relaxed bundle around her neck, but Jubrin had hesitated to leave her. The crowd was thick just inside the door, and Jubrin eased into it cautiously, careful of her burden.

A man in front of her turned unexpectedly, and she found herself face to face with Halik. His eyes instantly focused on the glistening sack that was Nirmalia, now actually touching him.

He yelled and scrambled backward. “Get that thing away from me!”

Jubrin darted past him through the sudden gap. A glance behind her showed Halik breathing hard, glaring at her. The patrons around him snickered. One of them teased, “What is it, Halik? Scared of the little critter?”

“She’s sick!” he retorted. “Carrying that grease-bag everywhere with her.” He raised his voice. “What do you do with that thing, Long Hauler? Sleep with it?”

A thickly built man next to Jubrin called, “Better company than you’ll ever be, Halik.”

Laughter broke out anew. Furious, Halik shoved his way through the mob, scrubbing the arm that had touched Nirmalia. He vanished out the exit to a barrage of hoots and jeers.

Adrenalized all over again, Jubrin stroked Nirmalia gently. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“My pleasure.” The big man grinned, eyes twinkling. “It looks like you could use a drink.”

Jubrin hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m staying.”

“Oh, you have a moment, surely.” The man summoned the barkeep. “Two drilburs.” Before Jubrin could protest, the man said quietly, “You’ll want to watch out for that one. What set Halik against you?”

Jubrin sighed. “He’s xenophobic. He went after Nirmalia this morning.”

“Well, better men than him have been put off by the sight of their first zorzifore.”

Jubrin stared. “How do you know what she is? Nobody knows what they’re called.”

The drinks arrived. Jubrin’s new acquaintance handed her one, then flicked the excess foam off his own glass and took a sip. “I saw one years ago, over in the zooery on Market Street. Never forgot it.” He looked kindly at Nirmalia. “She had markings like that one. Made an impression.”

Jubrin was too astounded to reply. Could he have seen Nirmalia before Jubrin had found her? The timing was right.

“A merchant will tell you all sorts of things,” he said, “but you’d know the truth. Are zorzifores really telepathic?”

Jubrin laughed. “Is that the rumor?”

The man shrugged, grinning.

“Nirmalia is sensitive, sweet, and very sympathetic. A good companion for a voiceless trip.”

“Hmm. I reckon they make folks uncomfortable because they’re a lot smarter than people want to admit. Of course, ’most anything would have Halik beat.” He stuck out his hand.

“Molk. I run a ring rimside. Clean sports, no blood.”

“Jubrin.” They shook. His skin was rough but warm, with a healthy strength behind it. She noticed, for all his bulk, he was well shaped. He held himself gracefully, too, like an athlete.

“It’s easy to recognize a woman who’s in charge of her own ship,” Molk said. “I’ve put in my time.”

“Spacing?”

He nodded. “Finally got sick of the stars. They’re pretty and bright, but they don’t talk back.”

“And you prefer pretty, bright things that do?”

“I do—unless the both of us are too busy for talking!”

His easy-going humor was infectious. Jubrin found herself smiling.

“And you? Ever get tired of the black cocoon?”

Jubrin twirled her glass on the counter. “Sometimes.”

“Aye, who doesn’t! It drove me to a new trade, but I can’t say I miss it. Just now and then. Will you be staying long?”

“Probably just the night.”

Molk took a pull of his drink, set it down thoughtfully. “Listen, Jubrin. I’ve seen that look on your face before. Seen it on mine, I mean. The Haunted, I call it. Seen it on spacers time and again.”

Jubrin kept her eyes on the bar. For some reason Molk’s observation had her heart doing double-time, and it unnerved her. “What do you mean?”

“You spend too much time alone.” His voice was soft, but somehow that deep rumble penetrated the noise of the lounge and went straight to her core. “You can lose yourself in space with no one to touch you, no one to remind you that you’re human.”

Nirmalia was a reassuring bulk against her breastbone, dozing in the dim light. But Jubrin was keenly aware of the warm body next to hers, its owner exuding confidence and strength. Her mouth grew dry.

“You don’t know me from Hesperus,” Molk continued. “And there’s no hard feelings either way. But if you want someone to keep the hounds at bay—and I don’t mean that backbiter Halik, but the dogs that gnaw at your soul in the reaches of the void, well—I’ve been there. It’s the touch of a human hand you need, the warmth of good rich blood under the skin.” He lightened his tone. “There. I’ve said my piece. But let me add, no one’s ever left my place with a heart heavier than when they came in. And both couch and bed are very comfortable!”

Jubrin chuckled. “Do you mean comfortable for two people together, or one in each?”

“I would say that’s up to you. Talk is another kind of bridge, only thinner.”

“A bridge?”

“To humanity. To what you are.” Gently, Molk caressed the back of her neck, gathering her hair into his huge hand. Jubrin closed her eyes, relishing the touch. “Talk helps, too. You’d look fine sitting in my room, with the yel low light touching your skin. But finer still with your soft hair spread over the pillow, your love ly eyes closed, and a smile on your face.”

Jubrin held still, letting Molk stroke her neck and hair. Softly, she tickled Nirmalia with a finger. “Can my friend come too?”

“She’ll be as welcome as yourself.”

Jubrin fumbled handing her counter to the barkeep. Molk caught it and handed it back to her, then gave the man his own. Unsteadily, she murmured to Molk, “I never do this.”

“I know.”

The bed was comfortable as promised, and Molk was a comfortable lover—honest and gen erous. Jubrin didn’t realize how much she’d hungered for this—for raw human touch, hu man breath—until their bodies joined and she couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t hold back, wanted to have him all and completely. Her arms groped over his sweaty back, her eyes shut hard as their bodies wrestled. Afterward, when they were quiet, Jubrin curled up against him while tears seeped from her eyes. Molk held her and stroked her hair, saying nothing until the crying bout passed. Then he kissed the top of her head and lay back without a word, for which Jubrin was intensely grateful.

The next day was data day. Information always paid, and Jubrin always updated the ship’s data banks with the latest advances every port she made. She found herself walking with a spring in her step. That morning Molk had risen to prepare them breakfast and came back to the bedroom grinning. Nirmalia had gotten to the ceiling light somehow and was hanging like a floppy fern in the middle of his apartment. Jubrin shook her head. Molk. How could she have slept with someone she’d met in a bar? But it was good. Sometimes it’s good to take a risk.

Since the information was transmitted directly aboard, she didn’t have to worry about a loading crew or Halik’s neuroses. Everything she’d physically carry was already on board. She’d left Nirmalia in the control room before locking up, kissing her goodbye in an excess of good spirits. Nirmalia was relaxed and playful, and that more than anything convinced Jubrin that her liaison with Molk had been a good thing.

Around midafternoon, something began to trouble her. Jubrin had been shopping; it had been so long since she’d bought any fun clothes for herself. She’d picked them out with care, intending to meet Molk that evening... but now the whole bundle suddenly seemed trivial. She left her latest findings in a heap, unpurchased, and backed into the street.

The marketplace was jammed as usual. Jubrin found herself butting up against people, pushing between them, breaking into a run in the brief gaps between bodies. By the time she reached the tube, her heart was hammering, her blood throbbing within her like sickness. She couldn’t think, couldn’t think, just exited the lift and ran down the long arm that connected her ship to the dock.

The ship was locked as she had left it. Even so, a strong premonition swept through her. She keyed open the hatch and dashed inside, racing a growing feeling of dread.

When she burst into the control room, she was greeted by a bitter tang in the air. She looked wildly for its source, then froze. Yellow fluid seeped from behind the copilot’s chair, exuding a pungent odor, like tea.

The moment lasted forever, while Jubrin fought her mind and spirit to receive it.

Nirmalia.

Gently, Jubrin knelt at the base of the chair. Nirmalia resembled a starfish, a paper starfish that had been pressed between the leaves of a book. The nearest curling tentacle lay flat to the floor. Jubrin peeled up the edge of it with a fingernail; it crackled, like a brittle leaf.

She remembered vomiting, remembered searching among her recent purchases for something suitable to take up Nirmalia’s body without shredding it to pieces. The juices of her body had been squeezed out to form a rank puddle on the floor. When Jubrin tried to sop it up, the grisly knowledge of the source of that fluid brought everything up again.

Long after all signs of the attack had been scoured away, Jubrin sat in the command chair, holding the wad of colorful clothes that shrouded Nirmalia’s remains. The com line blinked. She sat without moving and watched it. On, off, on, off. The fluttering light meant nothing to her. Nothing existed outside of this room. Nothing was left in the room. Nothing was left.

She remembered returning to the lounge that evening. She was wearing her darkest clothes, although she didn’t remember dressing or even deciding to come. The bar door opened repeatedly, but Jubrin remained still, a lioness patiently awaiting its prey. Toward midnight he stumbled out, cackling, with an arm draped across a mate’s shoulders. Grimly, she followed him down the street. The odds, two against one, were nothing. The hunt was all. The hunt and the payment, payment for Nirmalia’s thin blood sticking to the floor. Oh, make him pay.

Together, he and his friend weaved up to his flat, laughing and careless. Their impaired condition meant nothing to the lioness except that her prey was weak. After a snickering exchange at the entrance, the other man went away. Halik wobbled inside. Still Jubrin waited, each breath long and whole. She was ready; in her hand she held a miner’s pick, acquired from an alley. How careless these humans can be—but a lioness keeps her weapons with her.

A light came on, three floors up. After many whole breaths—for the predator does not count minutes, knows nothing beyond the filling of lungs and the sweet flow of air—another man opened the door to the building. She slipped forward and followed him inside on padded feet.

She never remembered the stairs. She only smelled the stuffiness of the flat, the stale food. Alcohol. The man nodded over the table in his den, his den, the glass in one hand tipped to the side, drops from it staining the table’s surface like thin drops of golden blood.

She weighed the pick in her hand, her gloved palm gripping the smooth shaft. She must strike while her prey is unaware, strike hard and sure. Light as a breath she stole across the room, until she stood a long arm’s reach from the drunken man, who even in his slumber could not keep the wicked smile from his face. She gathered herself. Slowly, she raised the metal point high.

Halik lifted his head. His eyes grew wide— then he hurled his heavy glass into her face.

Jubrin jerked, then was bodily slammed to the floor. The pick clattered free. Halik’s fingers were around her throat, the breath whistling in his nostrils. His stench rolled over her in a wave. She wrenched his hands away, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned her.

Terror cleared her mind. It dawned on Jubrin that this hunt might end with her own death. She had never killed before, had never wanted to—yet here was this person on top of her, intending to strangle her. I could die here.

The same idea must have reached Halik’s pickled brain, because he grinned. “Come to kill me, spacer?” His rank breath wafted over her face. “Come to get flattened like your pet?” He wrestled her hands over her head, then sat straddling her. The grin spread. “That’s just fine.”

Desperate, Jubrin bucked hugely, unseating him. She scrambled toward the door, but Halik caught her heel. He climbed up her body as she kicked, then smashed his fist against her cheek.

Her head slammed against the floor. She was on the brink, half conscious. Another blow wrenched her face to the side. Mindlessly Jubrin struck out, by sheer luck clipping Halik’s jaw. His grip faltered, just enough for Jubrin to roll free. Her hands fell across the pick. As Halik lunged after her, she whirled, all her terror and fury behind the blow. The metal bar plunged deep into his side.

Halik gasped and froze. Stunned, Jubrin looked at her gloved hands gripping the handle, at the shaft leading to the blood-speckled tunic. Through the handle, she could feel the grinding of Halik’s shattered ribs. Sickened, she let go.

Halik blinked at her, then toppled forward. The heavy pick slipped sideways, gouging up a chunk of flesh as it clanked to the floor.

She stared, breathing hard, as he looked at her glassily. His stricken face mouthed silent curses. “Bitch, whore, slut, I’ll get...” Then his eyes glazed, and the words stopped.

Someone pounded on the door. Jolted from her daze, Jubrin looked about wildly. The window was two steps away. Jubrin threw it open and swung herself onto the sill. Moisture from the nighttime sprinklers glistened on the paving stones outside. It was easy—just a threestory jump. As the pounding intensified, she plunged feet-first into the night.

She landed hard, slipping on the damp stones. Collecting herself as fast as her lamed and beaten body could move, she hobbled away. It hurt, but she had to get away now. Suspicion would fall on her soon enough. And Molk would know. Beyond all doubt he would.

Her very appearance would prove her guilt. Her face burned from injuries that had gone unfelt during the fight; she could feel the swelling on her cheekbone where the glass and then Halik’s fist had struck her. Anyone familiar with recent events would know she’d been up to murder. How could she plead self-defense, when she was in Halik’s own home?

She tried to imagine how Molk would react to what she’d done—whether he would be sympathetic or laugh at Halik’s fate. None of that mattered now. All that they might have had together was gone. Everything was gone, now.

She arrived at port before suspicion did. Easily, the ship slipped into the night. She aimed it toward the dawn, dipping into the atmosphere. Nirmalia’s remains were in the flush tube, snugly wrapped in a casing in Jubrin’s best clothes. As sunlight streaked over the horizon, Jubrin touched the release. Below her, a brilliant flash quickly flared out. Burial in sky. Nirmalia had become a tiny meteor, streaking toward the planet of the man who had killed her. But not reaching it, never lying there. The sky would be her eternal home.

Jubrin had resumed normal attitude when the com light blinked. She was still dangerously near the station, should they threaten pursuit. It didn’t matter. Woodenly, she pushed the button.

“I heard about Halik.” Molk’s voice. “Heard what he’d been saying in the bar beforehand, too. I’m sorry, Jubrin. So sorry I couldn’t stop him.”

Jubrin didn’t answer. She had no words left.

Molk cleared his throat. “I wanted you to know... it’s taken care of. You understand me? You don’t have to be afraid to come back here. If you want to come back, that is.”

Jubrin stared out the forward screen. She had no idea what she wanted.

“Well, I’m going to take no answer as no answer. Remember, Jubrin: if you ever get tired of the stars... I run a ring rimside. If you ever want me, that’s where I’ll be.”

A tear rolled down Jubrin’s face. There was a hole where her heart used to be. Ahead of her was only blackness, reaching out to envelop her like the soft grip of Nirmalia’s arms.

The link went dead. Below her, the planet fell away.

The ship’s engines turned space into a rainbow. Throat stinging, Jubrin hurtled forward into what remained of her life.

Her life.

Marie DesJardin writes humorous and dramatic speculative fiction including flash to epiclength, cartoons, and screenplays. She lives in Colorado, travels extensively, and enjoys hiking in the mountains.

Catching Zeus

Tom Jolly | 5061 words

Red pushed open the door to the lodge, struggling with two overstuffed suitcases, an instrument case crammed under one arm, and a laptop slung over his shoulder. A gust of snow and a smaller man pushed in behind him. “Churro. Check this place out.”

They both looked around. The outside had promised log cabin warmth. The inside had the logs all right, but also had about twenty years of collected dust, clumps of salty mud on the floor shed from the boots of visitors, and a clutter of wooden tables with empty plates and beer mugs scattered about, all barely heated by a fireplace that just wasn’t up to the task of making the room cheery. On the right was a small kitchen, and straight ahead was the hallway leading to the lodge’s rooms. Two bundled-up men sitting at a table glanced up at them, then turned back to their meals. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat between them.

“How much did the company pay for this?”

Red shrugged. “Only place in town.” He put his bags down, pulled his beanie off his mop of hair, and went over to the kitchen, where he could here the clatter of pans and dishware. At least the food smelled good. “Hey!” he called out.

After a moment, a middle-aged bearded man with a large gut came out, wiping his hands on a threadbare cloth. His filthy apron declared “Venison; it’s what’s for dinner.” He smiled broadly, but Red couldn’t see his mouth behind the black whiskers. He said, “Bonjour! Puis-je vous aider?”

“Bonjour,” Red said, “I’m guessing from your apron that vous parlez anglais?”

“Mais oui, Monsieur. How may I help you?”

“My name is Mike McKinnick. I have a reservation for two weeks. One room, two beds?”

“I remember taking the reservation. Let me get you the key to your room.” He stepped behind a small stained counter, opened a drawer, and rummaged around, glancing up at Red’s flaming hair. “Irish, are you?”

Red smiled. “American. Some Irish and Scottish ancestors. We’re here on business.”

He laughed. “No one comes to Labrador for pleasure. If the mosquitoes don’t suck you dry, the black flies will. This time of the year, only the cold keeps them hiding. Did you fly in?”

Red shook his head. “Took the train out of Emeril. Brought a truck along so we wouldn’t have to rent one out of Schefferville.”

The manager nodded. “The Chinese and Russians brought their own gear, too. Some drilling gear, even. I heard they flew some huge helicopters in to Schefferville Airport to bring in their equipment. A regular international convention, oui? One of my friends has a lodge a hundred kilometers north, which he says are full of Frenchmen and Germans this week. So much interest, and all of a sudden! Are the iron mines starting back up?”

Red glanced over at the one occupied table. Yeah, they could be Russian. He wondered if the Chinese were already out in the field. Surprising that there weren’t even more teams here, given the circumstances. He turned back to the manager. “I wouldn’t bet on it, but you never know. We’re here to do some assay work around the iron mines.”

“Hmm.” He nodded at the table. “Them, also. I hope that one of you finds something of value. The population has been shrinking for years. I am a bit surprised you picked this area, however; there are more accessible mines all along the Labrador Trough.”

“We got some promising data.” From ESA’s 3-D magnetic mapping constellation, the Swarm, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. Of course, if the Russians and Chinese were already there, then they’d probably discovered the data and made the same conclusions; magnetic fields that switch on and off meant something interesting besides data glitches. At least interesting enough to send Churro and him out here to Canada’s frozen armpit. Until he’d looked at a map, he had no idea how freaking empty and wet Quebec really was. Roads made their paths through a maze of lakes and bogs.

“Well, be careful. There’s some very unpleasant weather coming south. Thunderstorms.”

Red smiled. “We’re depending on that.” The manager raised his eyebrows. “Can we get some food and a couple of beers?” Red asked.

The manager tilted his head toward a chalkboard. “The menu is there. I would recommend the blackened cod. It’s nice.”

Translation: we have a lot in the freezer, Red thought. “No venison stew, eh?”

The manager looked down at his apron, then laughed. “Out of season!”

“All right. Churro, you okay with cod?”

“As long as it’s hot,” Churro said.

Red nodded. “Two of those, and a couple of Black Horses. We’ll put our bags in the room and be right back.”

The manager nodded and turned back to the kitchen.

The room was small but had its own electric heater. No air conditioner. The walls were wood paneled, and the beds sagged in the middle. Extra wool blankets were folded at the bottom of each bed. A washbasin was mounted five feet from the bed.

Churro looked around. “No bathroom?”

“Common bathrooms. Down the hall.”

“Great. I’m going to take a whiz before din ner.”

“See you out there. Don’t use the sink in the room.”

“Ha, ha.” Churro casually flipped him off as Red left the room.

Red went out into the common area, picked a table, and sat. The manager left his sizzling griddle and brought out two beers, pulling some silverware and napkins out of a pouch in his apron. “It’ll be five minutes.”

“Thanks.” The manager disappeared back into the kitchen, scratching his beard. Hopefully, Red thought, that isn’t where the “blackened” part of the cod comes from.

“Tovarish!” he heard behind him. Coming from the Russians. He turned his head. One of the two grinned at him; big shoulders, red cheeks, wide-set eyes, with a salt-and-pepper beard, raising a shot glass full of vodka to him. “You like the room temperature here?”

Room temperature, ha. The corners of Red’s mouth twitched in amusement, assuredly enough to let the Russians know why he was there. But that worked both ways. “ Mozhet byt, tovarish. We’ll see how hot it gets out in the iron fields.”

“Vi gavaritye pa-ruski?”

“ Nimnoga. I picked up a little while work ing in Kazakhstan for NASA.”

“NASA? So you are with government, yes?

Red felt like a milked cow. “ Nyet. Private firm.”

Churro walk in, nodded to the Russians, then sat down.

The big Russian continued, “You join us for some vodka after your beer, eh? Maybe we can pool resources against those Chinese.”

Red laughed. “ Ya dumayu, nye. I’ve drunk vodka with my Russian friends before, and know better now. We need to get up early in the morning, and I don’t think my company would be happy to share our discovery with the Russian government.”

The big Russian frowned in an exaggerated and somehow mocking manner, but he didn’t deny working for his government. “Well, be very careful with the Chinese, if you see them. They know the stakes here, and they are not nearly as friendly as we are!” He grinned crookedly, emphasized by bad teeth, and raised a shot glass to them. “To the one who finds it first. Na-stroviya!”

They raised their beers, “Na-stroviya.”

The next morning found Red and Churro standing next to their Ford Raptor, looking at four flat tires with holes punched in the sidewalls. In the back of the pickup, gasoline pooled under the snowmobile where its fuel tank had been punctured.

“Well, fuck.”

“ Na-stroviya, bitch.” Churro said. “Guess they got up a little earlier than us, huh?”

“Anderson will be pissed off.”

“He can’t fire us for this.”

Red stepped out into the street and looked up and down the road. There was a general store about two hundred yards up the street, but not much else. “What do you think the odds are of finding four good tires in this town?”

Churro shrugged.

They went back inside the lodge and found the manager. After loading up a couple of hot coffees, they told him the situation. “Tires, huh? Closest place to get tires would be Schefferville. They have a little repair shop there.”

Red glanced at Churro, who looked back at him blankly. “Thirty kilometers back the way we came. They have a population of, what, two hundred people?”

“They have to fix their trucks, you know? Whether they have the right tires, though...”

“Any other ideas? The Russians and the Chinese are already ahead of us, and I’d rather we owned the new mines than them.” Red felt a little guilty about intimating that this road trip was all about opening the iron mines, but he didn’t let it show on his face.

The manager thought for a minute, then said, “Follow me out back.” They went outside through a back door. A light snow had just started falling, and they could hear thunder in the distance. Prime weather, Red thought. Thundersnow. All they needed was one lightning strike during a superconductor phase transition. If they could catch the new magnetic field on their monitor, then they could track down the naturally occurring high-temperature superconductor and dig it up. It was a lot easier than going the other direction; waiting until a superconductor magnetic field heated up to phase transition, then lost its field, thus losing any hope of finding it.

The way Anderson had explained it to him was that the Swarm, ESA’s magnetic mapping satellites, had detected magnetic fields in the Labrador Trough area that looked like they were switching on during storm activity while cooling, and switching back off during warming periods. The prediction, theory, or wildass guess, was that lightning strikes had induced currents in some natural superconducting material while it was transitioning from nonsuperconducting to superconducting—then when the high currents from the lightning dropped away, the superconductor maintained its own field. The timing had to be perfect, but the fact that the Swarm had mapped it meant there had to be a hell of a lot of the material lying around at all sorts of transition temperature. In a normal superconductor, small internal defects and eddy currents caused enough resistance that the field would decay after a while, but what they were seeing from orbit was a sustained field that wasn’t switching off until the weather started warming up. It was like a double holy grail.

Anderson had told him, “We should have figured this out before. The Earth is a big chemistry experiment. Chances are, if there’s some weird mixture of ceramics and metals out there that can superconduct at room temperature, the Earth has already mixed them up for us and left them where we can find them. We just have to figure out how to look for them.”

The lodge manager took them to a large shed behind the lodge and opened a rickety wooden door. Inside was one of the strangest vehicles Red had ever seen.

“I could rent this to you.”

It looked old. The plate on the front said “Bombardier,” which made Red wonder where they stored the bombs. It had snow tires on the front, and tank treads on the back, enclosing four more tires and a drive sprocket on each side. It was bigger than their pickup, but fully enclosed.

“What is it?”

The manager’s chest swelled up like a proud father. “It’s a Bombardier B12, manufac tured in 1970 here in Quebec. It will get you most anywhere, and more importantly, will get you out of most anywhere. You won’t need a snowmobile, if you have enough spare gas cans.”

“And it still runs?”

He chuckled. “I rebuilt the engine myself last year. I have pulled many four-wheel drive trucks out of the mud with it. You can replace the front tires with ski-skids if you have the need for it. And I removed some of the seats for storage; I have never really needed seating for twelve. Not in this town.” He jumped up into the driver’s seat and started it up. The en gine purred. “A thousand dollars a week.”

Churro was caught mid-sip on his coffee and sputtered it into the snow. Red glanced at him and said, “Done.”

“You can explain this to Anderson,” Churro said.

“Better that than coming back empty-handed.”

They transferred shovels, pickaxes, and electrical gear to the B12, loaded up a week’s worth of food and extra gas cans, then told the manager where they were headed in case they didn’t come back in a week.

The rumble of the treads nearly drove them crazy for the first ten miles, but the light snowfall finally put a thick enough layer down to quiet them. Their Garmin was dropping a GPS crumb trail for them to follow back in case they lost the road. Red checked the weather via satellite while Churro drove.

“Heavy lightning, as predicted, about another fifteen miles North-Northeast. Looks like we can stay on the road for most of that.” Red looked out the window. The snow thickened ahead, but the visibility was still decent. “I wonder if the dense iron deposits cause more lightning strikes?”

Churro shrugged, concentrating on keeping the B12 on the snow-covered dirt road. “Too damn many lakes in this place. If we go offroad at all, we may end up in a pond.”

“Probably why the other teams wanted to get out here before the snow hit.” He glanced at the outside air temperature display. “OAT is minus four. What was the transition temp the satellites saw?”

“Minus two to minus ten. Either vague, or a mineral blend that allows a lot of variability. Minus four and dropping, that’s good. We might see some of the higher transition stuff. If we find anything at all, we can play with the chemical percentages to optimize it.”

Red looked at the GPS to make sure it was still tracking their route, then back at the vector magnetometer array in the back of the truck. One magnetometer would have given them the vector direction, and two would have triangulated it, but six gave them vectors in three dimensions; enough data to map it on a small video screen. It was running off an inverter plugged into the cigarette lighter. “Too much noise coming off the engine. We’ll have to park somewhere if we actually want to see anything.”

Churro pointed. “What the hell is that?” Three hundred yards off the road, a truck sat in the snow with a small tower hanging off the back of the flat trailer. Huge black knobby tires held everything in place like obsidian boulders. There was movement around the vehicle.

“That, my friend, is probably the Chinese. Looks like they’ve found something, or made camp based on the expected movement of the storm.”

Churro slowed, rubbernecking. Through the light snow, they could see a couple of the heavily-dressed men get into the cab of the truck and come outside with long sticks in their hands. They pointed the sticks at the B12.

“Shit! Drive, drive!” Red screamed.

Churro stomped on the pedal and the Bombardier leaped forward on its treads. The snow muffled the sound of the guns to soft puffs, but there was a poonk-poonk sound as two sets of holes appeared in the back of the vehicle, entering and leaving. The snow shortly blocked the line of visibility between them.

“Fuckers!” Red shouted. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just shit myself, is all.”

Red stared at him.

“Kidding. I’m okay.”

Red glanced down at the magnetometers. They were still working. No bullet holes. “Wonder how we’ll get past them on the way back.”

“Off-road, maybe.”

Red stared through the snow looking for the Russians. Had they had come this way, too? “I wonder if they shot at the Russians.”

“Maybe they were burying them back there.”

Red didn’t laugh. “Keep an eye out for the Russians. They might be better shots.” He grabbed a rag from under the seat and started tearing it into scraps to plug the holes. No reason to freeze to death while being shot at.

Two kilometers up the road, mining gear loomed up out of the drifting ghosts of snowfall. Churro desperately glanced around looking for the Russians, but the equipment quickly resolved into rusting steel structures towering above them. A worn sign declared “The Iron Ore Company of Canada—Site 27” The land nearby had been flattened and chewed up for its metal bounty, though the snow hid many of the scars.

“Wonder how long this has been shut down?”

“Give them points for having an original catchy name for their company. What’s that noise?”

Churro shut off the engine and listened. A rolling boom rattled the B12 a few seconds later. “That’s thunder, baby! We have lightning!”

“Storm must have come south, some. Chinese’ll be happy about that.” Red looked over the magnetometer array. “I’ve got a baseline for the local magnetic fields. Man, there is a lot of natural magnetism here.”

“Or it’s already superconducting and we’re late.”

“Yeah, or that.” Red watched the meters spike. “There’s a lightning strike. Settling down. No change in the baseline.” The dull boom from the strike rolled over them. “About five seconds away?”

“Just under two kilometers.”

“Want to park here?”

Churro looked south. “The Chinese might be sending snowmobiles.”

“Maybe hide behind some of this scrap?”

Churro shook his head. “Naw, they’ll see the tracks for sure. Snow’s not coming down hard enough to hide them.”

“Maybe we can ram them.”

“They only need to get within rifle range.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s pull around behind some of this rust pile anyway. No reason to make it easy if they do decide to follow. Hopefully they’ll just wait to nail us on the way back.”

They drove around some unidentifiable skeletal steel structures, finally parking behind a long wooden building. Part of the roof had collapsed, and one of the walls leaned outward precariously, ready to give way with the next load of snow. Churro shut the engine down.

“I’ll get a new baseline.” Red fiddled with the array. “There we go. Now, we just wait.”

The snow became heavier. Over the next hour, there were over forty nearby lightning strikes, with a handful lighting up the inside of the cab like daylight, even through the snow. The thunderclaps almost instantaneously followed the bolts.

“There!” Red finally shouted. “A new magnetic field! And it’s pretty good sized!”

“Close by?”

“Yeah. Looks to be less than a hundred meters... hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

“About twenty meters of that appears to be vertical.” He stored the GPS coordinates on the meter. “For next time. Maybe Anderson can send some real digging equipment up here.”

Churro drummed his fingers on his knee. “Did we really think we were going to just go pick up gold nuggets off the ground?”

Red shrugged. “Well, yeah, pretty much. The surface rocks would respond to transient temperature changes a lot faster.”

“But they would have tiny fields.”

Red stared at the display while toggling back and forth between the baseline and realtime. A few dim pixels flickered. “Shit, this place could be saturated with tailings that have the superconductor in them. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot?”

Red looked out the windshield. “Twentythree meters thataway. Shout if you see a pixel move or change on the display.” He grabbed a portable gaussmeter and jumped out of the Bombardier into the snow.

Churro could barely see him. Red kept brushing snow off the gaussmeter, then got down on his hands and knees and was digging in the shallow snow, tossing rocks to the side from a small mound. Churro watched the display as a dim red dot streaked across the screen, then disappeared. “That’s it!” he shouted.

“Aw, hell.” Red stepped over to where he’d tossed the rock, pointing the gaussmeter at the general area. “My body heat must have shut it off.” He stuck the gaussmeter in his pocket, grabbed a dozen rocks from the area, and carried them back to the truck. “It’s one of these, I think.” He opened the rear door and dumped them in the back of the truck.

“Thank you, tovarish.”

Red jumped a foot in the air, and Churro pointed at the Russian standing behind Red. “You!”

“Yes, my friend. We were parked only a few hundred yards away when you came into the area with this—” he waved at the vehicle “— thing.” It became obvious as he waved that he was also holding a gun, carelessly pointing it in their direction as though it was not really anything to worry about. “I’m afraid we’ll have to take these rocks from you, along with your magnetometers. I’d hoped that I would stop you with your deflated tires at the lodge, but you are most persistent.”

Red and Churro stared at one another. While spy-thriller karate chops, thrown rocks, and witty repartee passed through their minds, neither one of them moved. “Well, hell,” Red finally said. “How’d you get past the Chinese?”

“We shot back.”

“Ah. That explains why they didn’t follow us up here. And you’re going to just let us go?”

The Russian bowed slightly. “We are not the Chinese, you are young, and we will have international patents filed before you have a chance to get more equipment up here. It’s not a real risk for us.” He smiled.

“And the Chinese?”

“The Chinese have very low resolution de tectors. They will be drilling for a week, look ing for a deep lode.”

Two other men stepped up behind him and started unloading the Bombardier, moving the equipment to some sort of white Russian halftrack. They left behind two gas cans, two bottles of water, blankets and sleeping bags, the Garmin GPS, and a few sandwiches.

“Enjoy your trip back,” the Russian said, throwing a mocking salute to them, then disappeared into the half-track. Its engine rumbled to life, then it disappeared into the snowfall. Red and Churro stared at its rear taillights as they faded away.

“Sandwich?”

“Not hungry.”

“Nice of them to not shoot us.”

“Uh-huh. And they left the Garmin naviga tor so we can find our way back. Real swel fellas. If we leave now, maybe we can see the road well enough that we won’t need the GPS. Maybe dodge to the east to avoid the Chi nese camp. Keep to high ground to avoid the gazillion ponds and lakes.”

“Right. Let’s get it warmed back up in here.” They closed the rear doors and climbed into the front.

“Ow!” Red said as he sat down. “What...” He reached down and pulled out the compact gaussmeter he’d shoved into his pocket earlier. “... is jabbing me? Ha. How about that?”

“Won’t do us much good now. Nondirectional. Can’t discern one field from two.”

“Background here is about 0.5 milliteslas. Pretty high for an ambient level.”

“It is an iron mine.” Churro started the engine. “How about now?”

Red snorted. “All over the place.” He switched the meter off. “Let’s see if we can find our way home.”

“I don’t want to drive in the dark,” Churro said a few hours later. Skirting the Chinese camp had taken longer than expected, but they were back on the main road, such as it was.

“We got the GPS. Most of it’s flat.”

“It’s still snowing and we can’t hardly see shit. And it’s pitch black outside.”

Red looked in the back of the vehicle. The floor was wood and insulated. Though the sleeping bags and blankets wouldn’t be particularly comfortable, they were starting to look attractive. “Someone will have to get up and start the engine every few hours to run the heaters.”

“You intended to do that for the whole trip? I don’t know about your bag, but mine’s rated for arctic conditions.”

“Before or after global warming?”

“Hah. If you want to get up in the middle of the night to run the heater, more power to you. I’m not leaving my bag.” Churro pulled over to what was probably the side of the road and shut the engine down. “Tuna sandwich?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Or water.”

They ate the tuna in silence while Red toyed with the gaussmeter. “Huh,” he finally said, “the background here is only 0.1 milliteslas. At the mines it was a half.”

“Not so much iron here, eh?”

“I guess not.” He switched the meter off, unzipped his bag in the dark, took off his shoes and climbed in with his clothes on. “See you in the morning.”

A few hours later, he was awake and shivering, listening to Churro snore softly on the other side of the floor. Cursing the cold, he got up and started the engine, switching on the heaters. Churro mumbled something, then started snoring again. Red sat in the front seat and played with the radio for a while, picking up a staticky French-language station out of Labrador City, which he turned off after a few minutes. The vehicle was relatively warm again in five minutes, with some of the snow on the windshield having melted off. He shut off the engine. He looked out the windshield and could see stars. No moon, though, but at least it had stopped snowing. An aurora lit up a small segment of the sky, illuminating the white snow below with colors, and he thought about waking Churro to see it, and then thought about keeping the sight just for himself. Hell, he thought, he’s comfortable anyway.

The gaussmeter lay on the dash. Red sighed, picked it up and flipped it on. The display glowed back at him with 1.5 milliteslas. He stared at it in disbelief, slapping it a couple of times in his palm as though it had a sticky needle instead of a digital display. The reading didn’t change. He switched the meter off and on, and it still read the same.

“Churro!” he whispered. “Churro!” a little louder. “Churro!” he shouted. “Wake up, we’ve got a reading!”

“Wh-what?” Churro mumbled. “What time is it?”

“We’ve got a reading! Get up!”

Churro struggled out of his sleeping bag. “What the hell...” He rubbed his eyes.

“I’m going outside, see if the field is something nearby.”

“You could have done that without waking me up.”

Red looked at the outside air temperature gauge. It read minus eight degrees. He pulled his hood up and hopped out into the cold still air, walking north from the vehicle. The field quickly dropped off. He circled to the east, then south, then west, around the Bombardier, but the field remained low. Turning back toward the vehicle, the field spiked back up. He climbed back into the vehicle into the driver’s seat. “Whatever it is, we’re sitting on top of it.” He started the engine, pulled forward twenty feet, and stopped again, shutting down the engine. Turning on the meter, it still read 1.5 milliteslas. “Okay... whatever it is, we weren’t sitting over it, we’re carrying it.”

“Maybe some rocks wedged in the half track?”

“Maybe.” Red hopped outside again. As he approached the left hand tank treads, the reading spiked to two, then three milliteslas. He waved the meter around, looking for a max, but it kept taking him higher and higher on the Bombardier. The meter peaked at a reading of ten milliteslas near the vent for the engine compartment. He opened the vent panel to get to the engine, but the high reading kept pointing to the vent panel, vaguely centered on one spot. Weird.

He climbed back into the truck. “You won’t believe this.”

Churro rubbed his eyes. “This better be good.”

“Part of the truck is made out of superconducting material.”

Churro didn’t say anything for a minute. Red looked back at him to make sure he hadn’t fallen back to sleep.

“You’re just fucking with me,” Churro said when he met his eyes.

“The Bombardier. It’s made locally, the innkeeper told us. Local metals, local iron from local mines, local whatever. Some metal or ceramic that didn’t require much processing. Like pyrite, or something. The superconductor’s imbedded in the truck.” He grinned idiotically at Churro.

Churro laughed so hard he choked. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “This stuff may be in every other car and truck in Quebec. We could just cruise through town with a meter.”

Red shook his head slowly. “Maybe. But there’s a lot of electrical activity in town. We’d never pick out the signal. The great part about the Trough is the isolation.”

“Hmm.” Churro rubbed his slightly whiskered chin, then asked, “How are we going to get the parts off the Bombardier without the owner knowing?”

Red drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then snorted. “Thanks to the Chinese, I think I have an idea.”

“Bullet holes.” The inn manager stuck his finger in an entry hole, then regretted it since the exit was ragged and caught at his finger. He backed it out carefully, muttering to himself.

Red shrugged. “We’re just lucky they didn’t hit us or the engine.”

“Very close. You are lucky men.” He looked at the two holes in the side panels of the truck, and the other two right next to each other at the right vent panel near the engine. Walking around to the other side, he stared at the sharp edges of the exit holes.

Red and Churro tried to keep straight faces. It had been pure hell to punch the extra two holes in the paneling next to the engine using the chisel-end of the vehicle’s lug wrench. And another ten minutes of numb fingers on cold pliers to work off a couple of small pieces of the material from the raw, torn, artificial exit hole. The loose pieces of the metal—or whatever the ore was—clinked together in Red’s coat pocket.

The manager looked at the two of them, evaluating, then said, “Another hundred dollars for me to patch each hole.”

Red smiled. “Done.” He shook the manager’s hand. In the two days they were gone, the guy had somehow gotten four new tires for their Ford sent in from Schefferville, and with a little more friendly extortion, they were back on the road to the train station at Emeril.

In the heated cab of the Ford, Churro said, “We lost all our equipment, overspent the budget by about four grand, got shot at, and all we got is two little chips of metal to show for it.”

“We’ll overnight the chips out of Labrador City. We can just leave out the details of our adventure until we get back, after Anderson has tested the samples. He’ll be too excited to give us a hard time about the expense report. We’ll get bonuses out of it.” He grinned at Churro. “Maybe some more stock options.”

Churro laughed. Red stared out the window as light snow pelted the truck. He shivered. “Next time,” he said, “maybe we can go looking for superconductors that transition at tropical temperatures.”

Tom Jolly is a retired astronautical/electrical engineer who now spends his time writing SF and fantasy, designing board games (such as Wiz-War, and Manhattan Project: Energy Empire), and creating obnoxious puzzles. He lives with his wife Penny in Santa Maria, California, in a place where mountain lions and black bears still visit on occasion. You can find more of his stories at www.silcom.com/~tomjolly/tomjolly2.htm.

Drifting Like Leaves, Falling Like Acorns

Marissa Lingen | 3102 words

History began when they’d started shooting things.

When Bismuth had been posted to the fort near the forest, she started looking for records of the Gliders, when they had started altering themselves and why. But there was nothing of that, really, nothing of the early days at all, very little until the war began except for skirmishes with people who were hard to decipher, people who might not even have been people at all.

If Bismuth had not known better, the records might have led her to believe that their current foes fit the same category.

Her friends treated the forest fort posting as though she had gotten a vacation assignment, and she had to admit that she was looking forward to orders that did not involve phrases like “into their eye socket” or “with the barrel of your weapon.” Her sergeant had given her enough Siphon to turn her palms and the soles of her feet cinnamon-colored for the rest of her life, and she hoped that the fort would not require the need for quite so much Siphon. It made her head feel detached and jittery.

At the fort, Bismuth discovered that she was herself the new sergeant and that the new lieutenant had no interest in Siphon and very little supply of it. That was good. What they did have was a large supply of refugees and supposedly mustered-out veterans to look after. That was less good.

“You are in charge of the frog rations,” said the lieutenant, whose name was Sabadell, and who did not want to look anywhere lower than the top of Bismuth’s scalp.

“The... frog’s rations, sir?”

“The frog rations,” said Sabadell. “We get shipments of frogs. They’re altered so that their skin secretions are soothing. You pass them out to the veterans first. To the refugees after, using your judgment for who is most in need.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You can pet the frogs if you need to take the edge off.”

“Uh, thank you. Sir.”

“We don’t stand much on formality here.”

Bismuth had never known what officers meant when they said that, so she settled for replying, “No sir.” Sabadell sighed heavily and dismissed her.

The frogs were small enough to curl up in the palm of her hand and docile enough to mostly be willing to do so. She supposed they would not be nearly so useful for calming the veterans if they hopped away. After she read the lists for the first morning’s rations, she stuck a finger through the cages and stroked the damp green spotted back of one of the frogs.

The rush of well-being down her spine pleased and alarmed her, and she resolved not to do it again. That kind of calm was not to be trusted when it came on requisition from the army.

But she noticed, as she went about the rest of her work at the fort, that many of the civilian employees and not a few of the older veterans in the desk jobs were sneaking their hands into special lined pockets from time to time.

“Froggers,” her new Corporal, Virag, told her. “No shame in it.”

“No, I know. What about...?” Bismuth hesitated. She had seen little shapes in the trees, only a little more than half the height of people, and at that point she didn’t know about the Gliders. Asking about the wee little folk sounded like a good way to get herself a ration of something that might feel nice but would not help her to keep her new Sergeant’s rank.

But Virag patted her hand. “It’s all right, Sarge, the Gliders are real. Everyone who’s new to this sector has to ask.” Bismuth stared at the stocky, older woman, but Virag went on: “Little flying people in the trees. Don’t worry, you didn’t lick the wrong frog, they really do that.”

“Why?”

“Because they can.”

“But why can they?”

“Hell if I know, Sarge. If you figure it out, let somebody know. I don’t think even they remember.”

When Bismuth was introduced to some of the Gliders, they were visibly modified from the human main line, as so many others were. She tried to find a way to ask politely whether they remembered why, but the Gliders, while not easily offended, were also not a people who put much focus on recordkeeping.

And that was how she found herself in the records office, trying to find what their own history had to say about it.

Their own history spoke only of war, who had shot whom, what excuses they made for it.

The farther away the excuses, the more elaborate they looked, until in the present war there were hardly any excuses at all— only the pixilated sights of their weapons superimposed on each other, only the fact of the drones and the bombing and the territory taken and taken back. Only the way that no one Bismuth had met could remember a time that they were not at war with someone.

Amidst the excuses, nearly swamping the excuses, there were manuals for the devices of destruction her predecessors had used. Some of them were not even obsolete, but it was difficult to sort through which ones, which was probably why none of the manuals had been thrown out. Bismuth did not throw any out either.

In her previous experiences with handing out rations of this and that—which had been numerous, as a corporal—Bismuth had never known anybody to miss their ration of anything. If the army wanted you to have it, you had better turn up and get it, and if you didn’t want it, you could trade it to someone else for something you did want. She had herself, on numerous occasions, accepted blankets, drugs, kumquats, and socks that she had no idea what she would do with, though upon further reflection she always ended up keeping the socks.

It took her several weeks to realize that no one wanted two frogs, that no one needed two frogs, and that no one showed up for their next frog ration until their previous one had died.

She turned to Virag again. “How do they— I mean, don’t they miss their frog, when it dies?” She did not say aloud: I would. She did not say aloud: the little blue one, in the corner cage, I will. She had not been touching the frogs. She fed them carefully, made sure they were watered and had their tree branches fresh and artful and all the things army regulation frogs were to have. And somehow with it, the little one in the corner cage with a blue back, it had become her own frog.

The army was supposed to teach you not to become attached.

“Sarge, you miss everyone when they die, don’t you? But you go on all the same.”

She stared at Virag. Some things you were supposed to know not to say out loud in words, by the time you became a corporal.

“You want me to pass out the ration of modbran for the ones who have mules, Sarge?” said Virag.

Bismuth muttered her assent and turned away from the little blue frog she was saving out for herself. She went back to trying to figure out the Gliders.

She had not thought to wonder whether she was getting attached there, either.

Lieutenant Sabadell, who had really meant it when he said that they did not stand much on ceremony, wandered into the frog enclosure to worry. He worried more than any commanding officer Bismuth had ever had, certainly more than the ones who were getting shot at on a daily basis. Upon consideration, she did not think that shooting at him was likely to improve his anxiety. She suppressed the urge to offer him a frog.

“I thought you should know that there is some concern about our supply lines,” he said. “I wanted to tell you so that you could be prepared.”

Bismuth felt that there was no way in which she, personally, could be prepared. She waited for him to say something else that might make this make sense.

“The Gliders may have to help us fight,” he said.

Bismuth closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for the part that would make sense. Officers. They did this. They always did. She had thought perhaps, this far back—she had hoped—but no, officers, they always did. “There will be fighting?” she said. “Where, do you think?”

“About five miles up, in the forest. That’s where the Gliders can help.”

“How?”

Sabadell flushed. “They’re bombers. They’re supposed to be light forest bombers.”

“No they’re not.” She spoke without thinking, and then it was her turn to turn red, though not nearly as graceful as her tall and slender officer. “Sorry. Sir. I mean, I’ve looked into what we know about them, and they can’t—it doesn’t make sense. The bombs they can carry and still fly—their flight isn’t even really flight, it’s there in the name—”

“Sergeant.”

She pulled herself together. “Sir.”

“We take our allies where we can find them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When someone says that they will fight for the people we protect here, even if you think that the wrong half looks like soldiers, you thank them, and you fight with them.”

Bismuth hesitated.

“Speak your mind, Sergeant,” said Sabadell wearily. “Everyone else does.”

“The bombs will pull their weight off, Lieutenant. They’re very delicately engineered in the first place, seems to me—much bigger than that, and they couldn’t fly at all. Add in a bomb—”

“They’ll get where they need to go.”

“Barely, sir. And we’re not well equipped to fight. Our position is—I don’t even know why they built a fort here. And there are enough veterans who rely on the frogs that—”

“We’re going to have to try breeding the frogs, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. That had been on her mind, if their supply lines were threatened. She went to the frog cages to find that Virag was standing watching the frogs, which she had doubled up.

“They’re not doing it, Sarge,” said Virag.

“They’re not...” Bismuth trailed off and stifled a snicker. Then another. Then she failed completely. “Virag.”

“Yes, Sarge?”

“That’s not how you breed frogs.”

Frogs, Bismuth knew, had firm ideas about when, where, and how breeding should be accomplished. Even if they were given the proper kind of water, rather than being plunked in cages two by two—were they even complementary sexes? was there anyone in the fort who knew how to sex a frog?—it was not a task she felt confident that the army could accomplish in this facility. She felt that the lieutenant had barely more idea than Virag of what problem lay ahead of them, if the supply lines were cut. The centuries and worlds old joke about “Sergeant, pitch a tent” had nothing on breeding psychotropic frogs.

The next day the rains came. There were more veterans than usual queued up for their frogs, though she had no expectation that any kind of word had gotten out about supplies. They all had empty frog pockets. It appeared to just be coincidence.

Bismuth did not like coincidence.

Lieutenant Sabadell took the torrential rain storms as a chance to draw up battle plans. He drew them up by the dozen. They had contingencies for if the enemy came all the way to the fort and if they got reinforcements from divisions that had not, to the best of Bis muth’s knowledge, existed for a century. He included highly speculative weapons and weapons that they could fashion from forest supplies. He did not actually draw explosions or put words for the sounds the explosions would make in the battle plans, but all the same she began to feel that he was either mildly deranged or very, very young.

Then she saw the panicked look in his eyes and realized that he was just very, very frightened.

The rain did not stop.

The good news was that the scouts report ed no movement, no drones through the for est, no bombs, nothing that could be considered threatening.

Bismuth had learned that no news was not actually good news for very long, not in the army. She had fooled herself that the fort was not the real army, but now she was realizing that it was foolish. One of the mustered-out veterans was curled around herself in a puddle in the doorway, not moving, when Bismuth got to work in the morning. She didn’t have to check to know that the veteran was dead. She checked anyway.

“What happened to her?”

Virag shrugged. “Years of Siphon and stress and fear and who knows. They give out. We will too.”

“Thank you, Corporal, I was under the impression that I was the world’s first immortal sergeant, and you had better give that impression to the troops also.”

Virag grinned. It was her least convincing grin yet. While it was still sliding off her face, another of the scouts came in with a report, a Glider named Gleb. He drew very careful lines and arrows showing placement of everything they might want to know.

He turned to go, and Bismuth stopped him. “How far out in the forest do your people go, Gleb?”

“As far out as you need us.”

“No, but—on your own. Of your own accord.”

He shrugged his webbed shoulders. “Not far from here.”

“Why not?”

Gleb considered her at length. He apparently decided that she deserved an answer. “My mother says that our ancestors wanted a simpler life, so they made us to live in the trees on very little food,” he said. “But this is foolishness. They kept our brains. So we live in the trees, so we eat nuts and a little fruit, so what? We fly for sport, as some of you run and swim.”

“Not if we can help it,” muttered Virag.

Gleb bowed. “And indeed, some of you do not. And yet after a day, a week, flying through the trees, we tire of it. We wish to solve problems, think things through. We fiddle. We fidget. We tinker. This is human. And so we stay close to the settlements, where we can get musical instruments, sources of power, trade.”

Bismuth tried not to stare back at him, fearing she would be rude. “They made you for a simpler life?”

“If they did, if my mother was right, they failed.”

Bismuth kept digging through the records storeroom after Virag and Gleb had left her. She found nothing more about the Gliders, but she did find harnesses that were labeled glider: little-g attempts to rig mainline humans to be able to behave like Gliders. She had heard of such things, but these were powered, with tiny, warm cells. She pulled them out, dusted them off, and shoved them under her desk.

There was a manual in there for them somewhere. She could find it. She felt sure.

On her way back to the barracks, Bismuth spotted someone crouched against the wall, trying to get dry. She had seen few things more pathetic than a Glider in a long rainstorm. At first glance, she thought it was a skinny old man, wrapped in on himself in a ragged coat, wet and miserable, but as she neared the proportions became clear. “Can you—” She hesitated, fearing to be rude.

“We can’t fly in this,” said the Glider in a hollow, fluting voice. “Wing flaps get too—” He shook himself out to show her. The rainwater poured off the long flaps of skin that allowed him to glide from tree to tree.

“Are you going to stay here?”

“Another day,” he said. “And then we’ll walk into the forest like you—uh, like you folk. We’ll deliver our bombs that way.”

Bismuth wondered what the Gliders privately called their unmodified human kindred, but again she was not sure of the etiquette. The army was better at teaching marksmanship than interlineage diplomacy. “You can just go,” she said, though she knew it was against her orders. “You can disappear up into the hill forest. No one would find you. You don’t—this isn’t your fight.”

The Glider’s big, liquid brown eyes, lighter than her own and with larger pupils, made her uncomfortable, with the amount of time he wanted eye contact, the way he didn’t want her to look away. “Is it your fight?”

“They’re trying to cut our supply lines. You don’t need much for supplies.”

“You didn’t come here on your own.”

“Well—no.”

“You don’t stay here on your own.”

“No, that’s—no. I don’t.”

“We’ll stay while you stay.”

Bismuth looked at the Glider, considering. “If you go in the kitchen,” she said at last, “I know you don’t eat much, but they have a fire. You can dry out your, your—”

“Flight flaps.”

“Yes. Thank you. Your flight flaps. You can dry those out, and get warm.”

The Glider gave her a slow nod and trudged off in the direction of the kitchen. Bismuth went to feed the frogs, feeling like she had done two useful things in her day, at least.

The next day there was still rain, and Bismuth found she missed the dark shapes soaring through the trees in the half-light of morning. She wondered if it would be the same, if they had to go out into the forest, if she was looking up at them from a bedroll.

She had not missed sleeping rough. She had not missed the time without knowing where everything would come from—meals, meds, orders, friends, warmth.

She did not want to go back to that, never, no, she did not want the fort to become the front lines and the Gliders to become soldiers on the front lines.

There had to be something else that could happen, something other than the Gliders with bombs, something other than the veterans losing their access to the frogs that made their lives after battle bearable.

She pulled on a forest-camouflaged poncho, dancing with green and brown, and slipped her favorite little blue frog into its pocket, accepting the rush of well-being with a shudder.

She got Virag from the barracks and hustled her into the little-g gliders. “Do you want a frog?” she said.

“Nah,” said Virag. “Why make the little bastards die with us?”

“We might not,” said Bismuth. “We could. It’s possible that— With the manuals.” She stopped. She nodded and took the little blue frog out again, restoring it to its cage.

“There are the manuals,” said Virag. But she did not take a frog, and Bismuth did not take hers back. Instead, they bent over their plans. There was a chance. There was a better chance than the Gliders had. But still, there was no reason to risk the frogs, too.

The power cell felt almost as warm against her as the frog had. She had not been made for a simpler life, nor had she managed to strive for one more complex. “All right, Corporal, let’s get those bombs.”

Marissa Lingen is the author of more than a hundred short stories, including several previous publications in Analog. She lives in the Minneapolis suburbs with two large men and one small dog. She can be found online at www.marissalingen.com or on twitter @MarissaLingen.

Dall’s Last Message

Antha Ann Adkins | 2104 words

When Dall was an old seasaucer, with its surface starting to stiffen, it finally accepted it had nothing brilliant to say. It wanted its last message to be meaningful, so it decided to copy one of the greats.

Dall sucked ocean water in through its upper vents and pushed the water out of its lower ones to rise above its home pile, but instead of going up one meter as intended, it ascended ten meters before it could stop its upward momentum.

Dall’s terrified hearts pounded. It was easy prey this far away from the undulating ridge of white disks that was its home pile, its family.

A black waterwraith scudded overhead. Its six hairy tentacles rowed its oval body forward, its long fat tail steered it in a search pattern, and its four red eyes hunted for prey.

Dall’s bladder muscles froze, and it couldn’t push water out of its vents and descend back to its home pile. When it tried to relax its bladders, it hiccupped.

The waterwraith tilted and extended its tentacles to pull itself toward Dall.

Dall frantically pushed its bladders, but they spasmed, and the resulting hiccups only bounced it up and down.

In one fluid motion two tentacles curved down, clamped Dall between them, and swung Dall over the waterwraith to deposit it in the fanged cavity on the waterwraith’s upper surface.

Dall landed on a stack of seasaucers and slid into the top one like a bowl into another bowl.

For a stunned second, Dall did nothing.

The seasaucer below Dall wrinkled its hollow in greeting. “Dantart: What are you thinking?”

Dall wrinkled its base to respond. “Dall: I’ll be permanent soon, so I’m looking for a last message.”

“Dantart: I’m looking for a way out.”

“Dall: Have you found one?”

“Dantart: No.” After conveying its message, Dantart wrinkled its hollow with a message from one of the seasaucers beneath it. “Sturm: Seasaucers stolen by waterwraiths never return.”

Dall knew the proverb, but it chose to reject it. “Dall: We can be the first. I want my last message to be read.”

Dall waited for Dantart to relay its message and Sturm’s response.

“Sturm: We will read it.”

Sturm’s response annoyed Dall. It wanted to leave its last message to its home pile, so it might be read for generations. The only way to do that was to get out of this cavity, so it changed the subject. “Is there a way out down there?”

Dall waited for a response to flow up from the bottom of the stack.

“Locard: No exit.”

“Pinn: Peace is at the bottom of the pile.”

The previous year, when the big storm came, Dall had survived by hiding at the bottom of the pile.

On that terrifying day, a monstrous shadow slid over the light. Water ran from the shadow, tugging on the seasaucers on the top of the home pile, encouraging them to flee. One was pulled off the pile and went flying off into the darkness. Another followed, then another.

Dall’s hearts pounded, fearing it would be next. It wrinkled its base to ask the seasaucer below it: “Dall: How do we survive?”

“Eales: Move away from the storm.”

“Rimmer: Burrow.”

“Abbott: Push down.”

The home pile rippled violently as seasaucers implemented all three strategies. Some white disks rose from the pile just enough to blow across to the leeward side, others tilted so they could burrow between the stacks to the home pile’s jumbled core, and others sat in white columns stacked three to ten high.

Dall nervously opened and closed its vents. It didn’t know which strategy to pick, so it tried to remember all the messages it had read about storms. What came to mind instead was: Waterwraith tentacles can’t read the seasaucer library. This message was generally believed to mean the waterwraiths were too stupid to read, but it could also mean the waterwraith tentacles couldn’t reach deep enough into the home pile to read the permanent seasaucers that formed the core of the pile, so the library was a safe place to hide. If burrowing would save it from the waterwraiths, perhaps burrowing would save it from this storm.

It sucked in as much water as it could, rose from its stack, tilted over, and blasted the water out through its upper vent to burrow between stacks and into the pile. Then it closed its vents. And waited.

As the storm advanced, a wave of cold crashed over the pile, blowing away the top layer of seasaucers. A freezing jet of water attacked Dall’s burrow.

Dall’s hearts pounded the drumbeat of retreat. It sucked in more water and burrowed deeper in the jumble of permanent seasaucers. It would not surrender.

Time slowed to a stop.

The stress of waiting for the next onslaught made Dall’s hearts hurt. Since it was waiting in the library, it decided to read. Dall shifted in place to settle into the hollow of one of the seasaucers below it.

Wrinkling its base, it asked the opening question, “Dall: What are you thinking?”

Of course, the message did not change. The seasaucers in the library were permanent.

Dall read the message.

Riosi: When a storm destroys a pile, somewhere it deposits a new one.

Dall emitted a snort. Of course, now it got a message about storms. One intended to give hope. And yet, when a storm is destroying your home pile, you’re not hoping to find a new pile. You’re hoping your home pile will survive.

Dall’s snort lifted it above Riosi, and another seasaucer slipped into the gap between them.

Bonanni: Even if waterwraiths steal seasaucers to make a pile, it is still a seasaucer pile.

Dall groaned. More hope. Why the waterwraiths took seasaucers away from their home pile was a perennial debate topic. The leading theory was that they used the seasaucers to build themselves a home pile, but Dall had always been skeptical about this argument since waterwraiths did not live on the ocean floor. It thought the waterwraiths ate seasaucers.

Dall shifted to read the next seasaucer.

Zim: If a seasaucer’s last message is never read, is its life meaningful?

The thought of its life’s meaning being limited to a single statement terrified Dall, but one of its favorite proverbs was, The best antidote to a bad message is reading more messages. It continued to read.

After hours of reading permanent seasaucers, Dall realized the ocean had grown warm and calm. It rose toward the surface of the home pile.

The pile had been devastated. Uncountable living and permanent seasaucers had been lost, making the pile shorter and smaller.

Dall’s hearts ached with grief.

Yet the pile lived on. In the peaceful water, living sea saucers were gathering the scat tered permanent sea saucers and returning them to their home.

Dall rose from the pile to join them, thankful its burrowing strategy had worked.

Now that Dall was caught in the waterwraith’s cavity, it was again getting advice to burrow to the bottom of the pile. But Dall thought the only exit was the fanged opening above them.

“Dall: I’m rising out of this cavity. Want to join me?”

“Dantart: I’ll follow you.”

“Sturm: Me, too.”

The other seasaucers did not answer.

Confident, Dall sucked water in through its upper vents.

Another seasaucer rose from another stack, positioned itself below the middle of the fanged opening, and rose toward it. Suddenly, the waterwraith tilted, and all the seasaucers slid toward a side of the cavity. The escaping seasaucer bumped against a fang, and the opening snapped shut, spearing the runaway with two fangs.

Dall’s brain froze with fear. It sank back down to the stack, which jolted as each seasaucer fit back into place.

The opening dilated with the unsuccessful escapee still pinned to one fang.

Dall’s brain started working again, and it thought the opening would only close if something hit one of the fangs. Since the opening was twice Dall’s diameter, it could pass through as long as the waterwraith didn’t tilt again.

“Dall: I think we can make it out if the waterwraith doesn’t tilt. Who’s with me?”

“Dantart: Not me. Too risky.”

“Sturm: It won’t work.”

“Dall: Getting out is worth the risk.” It rose to the opening, lined itself up with the mid dle, and blasted its way through.

Since the waterwraith had no eyes on its upper surface, it did not see Dall escape, and it swam out from underneath Dall.

Dall’s home pile of white disks rippled beneath it.

Dall rejoiced at seeing its home. It had learned how to escape a waterwraith, and once it was back in the home pile, it could compose a very valuable last message.

A pair of tentacles clamped around it so tightly Dall was afraid it would shatter. Its surface was growing inflexible, and it would be permanent soon.

Dall refused to stiffen. It had made a great discovery, and it wanted to share it with its home pile. It wanted to be remembered as one of the greats.

Two years ago, when Dall had just learned how to read, Carica, one of its teachers, took it to read the great Verrill.

When they arrived, Carica tilted, and Dall slid from Carica’s grooved rim down to Verrill’s unusually smooth rim.

Dall struggled to make out Verrill’s last message. One word felt like “waterwraith,” and another felt like “nothing.” The remaining words had been polished down to unreadable bumps.

Dall felt confused. Verrill seemed to be concluding the waterwraiths were nothing, yet Dall knew they were dangerous. Forcing water out of its lower vents, Dall rose out of the ancient seasaucer and landed back on Carica’s hollow.

“Dall: I could only read two words. They didn’t make sense.”

Carica tilted to slide it onto another seasaucer. The message on this one was sharp.

Dall carefully read the words.

Lellak: Verrill: Permanent waterwraiths communicate nothing.

At first, Dall was surprised this was Verrill’s famous message. After all, everyone knew waterwraiths were stupid.

After a minute, Dall closed its vents in amazement. Verrill had been the first to realize the waterwraiths left no last message. For it, this had been an incredible insight it wanted to share. Dall returned to Carica. “Dall: Some of the words matched what I could read of Verrill’s message.”

“Carica: They should. After only one generation, Verrill’s final message started to wear off. A group of concerned teachers decided to preserve it by copying it as their last message.”

Awe filled Dall. Verrill’s last message was considered so brilliant other seasaucers had copied its statement as their own last message. Dall wanted to leave a message that would make future seasaucers feel the same way.

Now Dall had a message even better than Verrill’s: how to escape from a waterwraith. Once it was in this waterwraith’s cavity, it would break free again to share that message.

A sense of peace filled Dall. It had a plan.

Instead of placing Dall in its cavity, the waterwraith carried Dall over to two other waterwraiths and handed it to one of them.

Dall’s old hearts thudded slowly. It didn’t have the energy to fight the waterwraiths, so it would have to wait them out like it had waited out the storm.

The waterwraith brushed a tentacle across Dall.

Dall reflexively answered, “Dall: Let me go!”

Dall hiccupped a laugh. Everyone knew waterwraiths couldn’t read.

The waterwraith passed Dall to another waterwraith who felt Dall with a tentacle.

Dall froze. Was everyone wrong? Could the waterwraiths read? Did they keep their own seasaucer libraries?

Dall could feel its surface starting to harden. Like it or not, it was going to become a part of the waterwraith library. Sorrow washed through Dall like a minor storm. It had wanted to leave a message to its own kind, a message that would add to the conversation between the generations. But when a storm destroys a pile, somewhere it deposits a new one. It had lost its chance to leave a message for its home pile, but it had a new chance to leave a message for the waterwraiths. Dall’s inner storm rolled away, leaving peace. Its life would have meaning. It folded its surface to display its final message, a message to the waterwraiths that Dall hoped with all its hearts they could read. “Dall: Be the peace, not the storm. Share our messages with our family. Return us to our home.”

A waterwraith tentacle stroked Dall as its hearts stopped.

A few minutes later, all the waterwraiths opened their cavities, turned upside down, and let their collected seasaucers drift down to the seasaucer pile. When all the seasaucers had settled, the waterwraiths placed Dall on the top of the pile, where it could be easily read.

Antha Ann Adkins lives in Friendswood, Texas with her husband, two children, and an ever-growing collection of books. Her stories have been published in the Athena's Daughters 2 anthology, Stupefying Stories, Perihelion Science Fiction, and several other publications. She blogs about Space & Aliens, her favorite things to write about, at acubedsf.com.

You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.

—Buckminster Fuller

The Last Mayan Aristocrat

Guy Stewart | 6912 words

Illustrated by Josh Meehan

She knew it was going to be a bad day when Kish, the last high priest of the Maya, was already on his step, panting, waiting for her.

Expecting the usual complaints, gossip, and reports of relationship dissolution, she growled faintly. Her elaborate ceramic cup, which she held gingerly in one hand, gave off a fragrant steam. The words “This is the drinking cup of the Daughter Lord, IxChan Pana, last Aristocrat of Zac Petén,” had been worked into the surface. The chocolate-laced coffee smelled wonderful anyway.

She took a long draught, her mouth tingling from the near-scalding, earthy, bitter drink, then went to the edge of the step. Looking down, she said, “Will you live for another sunrise, my priest and friend, or shall I send for your replacement?”

She cursed herself. Without thinking, she’d given him just the opening he needed to start the day’s complaints. Instead, he said, “I am the last priest of Itzamná, Kukulcán, Bolon Tzacab, Chac, and you Daughter Lord.” He slowly climbed a half step, leaned forward until his chest lay on the top of the pyramid.

IxChan Pana said, “You don’t have to...”

“Soften your voice,” he whispered angrily. “I serve as I must.” She pursed her lips. He was in one of his touchy moods. She sighed as he lifted himself to hands and knees, slowly standing, bowed to her, glanced down at the meager crowd gathered in the courtyard, and said in a low voice, “There is trouble, Daughter Lord.”

She waved away his concern. “There is always trouble, Kish.” In the past year, he seemed inclined more and more often to find trouble in the shadows and portents of the stars. “What is it today? Rumors of invasion from the west? More conquistadores?” she used the alien word instead of the unflattering Mayan description, “laataa p’ook wach.” Usually calling them tin hat soldiers made Kish laugh out loud. But his lined face did not even crack into a smirk. She said, “Have more young men and women deserted our gods, perhaps for one in favor of proving fertility by copulating as often and vigorously as possible?” He held her gaze grimly. She backed off the teasing. “What’s wrong, Kish? I sincerely wish to know.”

His face set into stubborn crags and valleys. She held his gaze, wondering again when he had grown so old. Finally, he relented, puffed breath from his nose, and said, “Twelve more families have slipped away in the night. I have reliable intelligence that fifteen more plan to leave within the week.”

Rage welled up in her. Her father had allowed his people to leave if they wanted. The word returned that they were tortured, enslaved, converted by the conquistadores to their strange, foreign religion. Even then, he allowed them to leave the peninsula! Then they took her father, and she closed the borders of her land. No one entered. No one left. “No!” Her scream made the crowd below halt motionless where they stood, looking up as the voice of their Daughter Lord echoed in the courtyard. “Send soldiers after them. Bring them back.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “Kill them if they resist.”

“You cannot afford to kill your worshippers, Daughter Lord.”

“I would rather kill them all if they feel the need to slink away in the night! When my father was Lord of...”

“Ajaw Kan Ek is still Lord of Zac Petén; while he lives...” Kish began.

IxChan Pana cut him off with a gesture. “I am Lord now.”

Kish bowed and said softly, “Then listen to my advice as he did.”

Frozen as if carved from stone, she breathed, “You dare...”

“I serve. As you do, Daughter Lord. It would be best for you to remember that.” He paused. “Your people flee because you are not near them. They flee because they do not see their god.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she sighed. He was right, of course. But she’d grown afraid to climb down the pyramid’s steps when all that greeted her were more abandoned huts and the shadow of her missing father. For months while soldiers searched for him, she’d made Kish take her to every hut, occupied or empty, then exhausted, she’d climb back up and lay in bed for days, saddened by their faithlessness and willingness to wander from their god and her own ineffectiveness. She was decades younger than Kish, yet she acted like an old woman. She would never be the Lord her father was. “I’m going to lay down.” She turned for her hut, and Mahaway limped out to escort her, taking her hand.

Kish said abruptly, “There is another bit of news.”

“What else can there be but more bad news? It’s always bad news.” Mahaway tugged at her.

“I do not know what kind of news this is.”

She turned, looking down at him. Even when he stood, she seemed to tower over him. When had she grown so tall? How long had she ruled Zac Petén? Four years. She returned to sit on the block of granite placed near the edge of the platform atop the pyramid. “What is this other news?”

“I have heard that a god walks the Earth.”

She shook free of her servant, saying, “The gods have always walked...”

“This god is incarnate and a young Maya ch’uupal who speaks the words of the laataa p’ook wach changes the god’s words into ours.”

“Why would she do that?”

“The god refuses to speak the words of Maya.”

IxChan Pana sighed, deflated, and said, “It is because we are a dying people. What use would the gods have with words of a people who will soon disappear into the earth?” In the courtyard, the people streamed out to their daily work. Two months ago, Kish and his slaves had counted four thousand men and women who lived less than a fifteen minute walk from the temple; less than half the number when she stepped under her father’s crown. Few lived on the mainland, nine in ten lived on the peninsula so that they could be near their lord and god. When they chose to leave, they never returned. Her people were steadily dribbling into the jungle like the blood of ancient sacrifices had dribbled from the altar.

IxChan Pana said, “Which god has chosen to walk here without telling me?”

“What does it matter, Daughter Lord? This god wishes to speak with you. Your only response should be, ‘Let us go’!”

She raised her hand to strike him, paused to think, then slapped him. He rocked backward and sank to his knees. The sound echoed, and those still in the courtyard turned to look up. Trembling, she said, “Stand up, priest.” Kish climbed to his feet. He was also trembling, and she realized how lucky she was that he had not tumbled completely over the edge. “I don’t want to speak to the god. I am a god....”

“You are not this kind of god, Daughter Lord.”

She sniffed, saying, “There are some who thought the tin head soldiers were gods. They were...”

“This god is in no aspect human, Daughter Lord. I have seen it. I spoke to it through the peasant ch’uupal.”

“What do you mean, that the god is not human?”

She knew then a moment of dread. What if Kukulcán the Serpent god, had come to Zac Petén? What if it meant to devour her whole for her failure to keep its worship alive?

Kish turned to stare out over the roof of the jungle. The riotous growth was pressed back from the center of the city only by the constant effort of slaves, peasants, and even merchants and artisans. Never at the same time, though always with the same mission to keep the eternal jungle at bay. Select trees where household and personal gods lived were the only trees allowed into the city, and they shaded the avenues. The jungle pressed in harder the farther from the courtyard someone walked. He said slowly, “The god that has requested a meeting is Camazotz, Daughter Lord.”

Startled, IxChan Pana blurted, “I will not go!”

“Camazotz will be angered, Daughter Lord. It will kill us all.”

She looked out over her domain. If she stayed, the god would be angered, just as she would if she’d summoned a god, and it refused. It was also true that to go, she would risk her life. “What is Camazotz like, Last Priest of the Maya?”

Kish paused, took a deep breath and said softly, “It is as fearsome and horrible and judgmental as we have always believed, Daughter Lord.”

In a small voice, she said, “I don’t want to go to it.”

Kish stepped close to her and said quietly, “That may be, but to do anything but speak with the god, puts all of us at risk. The god cannot harm you, divine Daughter Lord, but it will surely kill me—and the rest of us—if you refuse its summons. You cannot sacrifice your people so that you might be at ease.”

She’d gone to be among her people two months ago, but that was on a whim. She’d heard a voice call to her that had sounded like her father. It had turned out to be nothing but a daydream. She sat still, wishing for a moment that she could pray to someone more compassionate than herself or Kukulcán. Finally she said, “I will go to the god.”

Kish exclaimed loudly, “You must not bow to the visiting god! The Daughter Lord cannot leave her temple!” Below in the courtyard, those who remained gasped. Some cried out in denial. IxChan Pana noted that others nodded, perhaps confident that she could overcome even so fierce a god as Camazotz. She stared up at Kish, her mouth open, then grinned.

She called out, “Not even you can keep me here, Priest! The god wishes to speak to me. I will go. If it tries to kill me, I will kill it!” She stared out past the blurred border of her domain and dropped her voice so only Kish and Mahaway could hear, saying, “Perhaps the people will draw close to me again if I make common cause with this nonhuman god.” The god’s name literally meant “death bat,” and it presided over the night, over death, and over sacrifices. Shaking her head, IxChan Pana muttered, “We are appropriate for two of its three realms of rule. Too bad we no longer sacrifice.” She lifted her chin and said, “We will go at first light. See to it that my followers are ready after I break my fast.”

They descended to the courtyard earlier by her command. Surely Camazotz had spies among her people. She would not give it the satisfaction of preparation. Because the followers had not had time to assemble, when she walked down the steps of the pyramid long before sunrise touched the horizon, she was able to leave with the workers and commanded the others follow once they were assembled.

IxChan Pana surprised Kish in his hut. He’d prepared in a rush, and even before the rest of the merchants had set off the mainland to tend their fields, she and her high priest—dressed like a wealthy foreign merchant with a dark beard—had reached the wooden bridge over the moat. Kish, old man that he was and using a walking stick, kept them at a pace appropriate to his apparent station. The usual crowd had passed them by, spreading out over trails and animal tracks for distant fields.

She’d dressed scandalously, far below her station. Mahaway had rasped in horror that the Daughter Lord would leave the temple at all, but dressed like a merchant’s youngest granddaughter? Hissing was all she could do; she’d lost her voice through a disease that had eaten away at her throat. IxChan Pana, however, understood the language of too-tight tugs, the clucking like a turkey hen, and the constant sniffing that had nothing to do with blowing her nose, as clearly as if her woman spoke words of rebuke.

Kish leaned closer to her, “You are certain this is what you wish to do, Daught...”

She elbowed him hard. “Tialli. I will call you Papan.”

“Of course, Tialli,” he said through clenched teeth. “Of course, you are the Earth—and I have to be a flag.” She could not suppress her grin. Despite her fear yesterday morning, an unexpected excitement had started in her, and now that they’d fled the peninsula, she realized that she’d not felt this alive in months. Years perhaps since the conquistadores had taken her father. They walked among the farmers, though at the rear of the procession of landowners bent on business; behind them peasants, and at the rear, slaves dressed only on loincloths.

“How far will we travel to speak with Camazotz, Papan?”

“Two hours, possibly four.”

“You don’t know where we’re going?”

He replied, “I do. But the purpose of this trip is investigation, not confrontation. We must take care,” he paused. “Laataa p’ook wach may be nearer than we think. I would sacrifice myself if anything happened to...”

She waved away his concern. “Nothing will happen. No one will recognize us. We are a granddaughter with her grandfather who is considering her for his business contact in this rich foreign land.”

He snorted. “You’ve planned this well.”

“I had no sleep last night—with nothing to do but plan,” she paused. “Yet I feel strong.”

He nodded slowly as they walked on. The light grew stronger until it finally spilled through gaps between the trees and foliage, blades and poles of light piercing the dust raised by the travelers. Reaching the mainland, the crowd thinned, the farmers with the best land peeling away from IxChan Pana and Kish. Rumor was that they might be traders from nearby Yalain! She smiled at that. When the last of the crowd was gone, they kept on. They’d traveled alone for another hand’s breadth of sunlight through the trees when she said, “Are we there yet?”

He shot her a dark glance, which reminded her of a trip they had taken to Tah Itza when she was a child. She grinned at him. Best to play a bit more before her followers caught up with them, and she was betrayed as the Daughter Lord. She expected a grumpy silence when he said abruptly, “Here we are.”

Her breath caught in her throat as Kish stepped to a narrow trail, barely an animal run, that angled off the main road to the east. He swept his arm to indicate the shadowy undergrowth and bowed. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing for certain that she was afraid, she threw her shoulders back and plunged into the jungle, batting aside low-hanging branches. She used the stride of her long legs this time to pull ahead of him. After several moments, he called out, “Daughter Lord! Slow down! It is not proper for you to...”

She never found out why leaving her priest behind wasn’t proper. She stopped abruptly in a broad clearing. The ground was pounded solid and dried. A girl barely into womanhood had frozen in mid-sweep, staring at IxChan Pana. Behind her, a thatched hut was made of panels of straight, stripped, vertical branches woven together. Three brightly colored rugs with blue, red, and white bands hung from a twisted cord line.

The girl dropped to her knees, unbound, long black hair spilling over her upper arms and face. “Daughter Lord! I beg for my life!”

Kish stumbled in behind her and said in a low voice, “Your followers just arrived. They’re noisy so they cannot hear you now. Speak quickly before they become respectfully silent.”

IxChan Pana stepped forward, then leaned over the ch’uupal and said in a low voice, “We are not here for you, child. We seek audience with the god Camazotz.”

“It is as the god predicted. The god has also directed me to stand and look at you, Daughter Lord.” She didn’t move from her prostrate position.

“You may stand,” said IxChan Pana irritably after waiting several moments.

“I cannot, Daughter Lord.”

Letting out an exasperated snort, she reached down and pulled the girl to her feet. “What is your name, child?”

“You know, Daughter Lord.”

Grinding her teeth, IxChan Pana glanced over at Kish who mouthed the girl’s name. “Of course I know your name is Citali and that the god will not speak the words of Maya as we are a people who will soon disappear into the Earth. What use would the gods have with the words of such a people? It speaks the words of the laataa p’ook wach which you change into ours.”

Now the girl did look up, fear in her eyes. “It cannot be so, Daughter Lord!”

IxChan Pana said, “I will speak with the god Camazotz now.”

She nodded and turned to her hut. A moment later, she came back out and said, “The god will speak with you now.”

“Tell the god to come out here,” said IxChan Pana.

“The god cannot come out into the full light of day. It must stay in the darkness as that is how it lives.”

IxChan Pana held her breath, glancing at Kish. She was glad the rest of her followers weren’t here to see her mistake. Of course! Camazotz presided over the night. She nodded, and ducking her head as little as possible, walked into the hut. She gasped and held her breath again. The stench was overpowering. It was not incense, or strangeness, or even brimstone. It was the smell of death and decay; as familiar to her as the fragrance of the rain-washed jungle. It was the smell of the altars on the pyramids of the Maya; the stench of the blood that sat in the hot sun until it crawled with vermin. She had eaten no breakfast that morning and was now glad of it. She breathed through her mouth for several moments before she finally said, “The Daughter Lord of Zac Petén brings greetings to you, the god Camazotz.”

The ch’uupal, Citali turned to the shadows of the hut and spoke. There was pause, then the language IxChan Pana recognized as that of the laataa p’ook wach grated from a mouth not made to speak it. Citali said, “The god greets you as well but says that you must listen as it speaks through me.”

“What?”

She dipped her head, cleared her throat and started to speak again. IxChan Pana growled and stepped to push the ch’uupal aside. She heard a wheezing rustle from the darkest corner of the hut then a tentative step. Abruptly, there was a sound like blankets being shaken out, and a creature, the god Camazotz, stepped forward. Its furred head had no lips and no teeth, but a beak like a turtle or tortoise, huge eyes and a spiked mane that made a corona around its face. Fur from the neck down appeared to grow in colored fringes, alternating red, black, and tan. Supple flesh, like soft leather, draped from arms that ended in thick, three-fingered hands. It stood on two legs, but they were back-bent, and each of three toes was taloned. The god was not sleek, nor was it clean. Fur appeared to have fallen out in clumps, and two nostrils widely separated on the beak dripped yellow and red-streaked fluid.

The appearance of the god explained the stench. “You do not have much time,” IxChan Pana said. Citali interpreted.

Camazotz said through the ch’uupal, “You do not have much time, either.”

“How can you say that?” she exclaimed. Kish knew well that their city was the last stronghold of the Maya, but how did this god know that? The light reaching inside dimmed as her followers crowded the door.

Citali’s tone was flat as she spoke the god’s words, “More people leave your city every day to fade into the jungle or live among alien peoples.”

IxChan Pana flashed with anger again, “You’re calling them to follow you!”

“I am not. I have no need of worshippers, my need is to laylie kahtal.” The god spoke the last two words in Mayan.

The Daughter Lord held her hand up to Citali and said, “I heard the god say that it wishes to ‘always be alive.’ Why would it always want to be alive?”

Confused, the ch’uupal turned and spoke to the god. The god replied at length. When she turned back to IxChan Pana, she was near tears. “Daughter Lord, I do not understand what the god has said, so I will tell you what I heard. The god says ‘I have watched your people for many years. Other gods I serve require that I perform this function here. I have seen the number of Maya shrink, I have seen them taken prisoner, I have seen them willingly go to the conquistadores. I was preparing to leave you to your fate when disaster fell on my way of leaving. I will now never return home. I need the Maya to send a message in my bones to those who will return for me someday.’”

IxChan Pana stared. It was clear that Camazotz was dying. She said, “You wish to laylie kahtal? You are a god, you will always live.”

The god made a grinding sound from its throat then said, “You and I know that we are not gods, Daughter Lord. We will both die. Gods live forever.” Citali trembled at the words the god had her speak, but IxChan Pana paid her no attention. The girl was only a mouthpiece of the brutal creature before them who claimed to be a god.

“So you are not a god?”

“I will die one day, as you will, IxChan Pana, as your father will soon in the prison of the conquistadores,” Camazotz said through Citali.

“What do you know of my father,” she cried stepping forward. Her hands clenched into fists.

Camazotz swept its immense wings down, blowing the foul stench of decay over them as it hopped closer to IxChan Pana. Citali vomited. The Daughter Lord sank to her knees, her stomach heaving, knowing her people stood at the door. Her followers cleared away, the sounds coming from outside the same as those inside. Kish was vomiting as well, though he curled around his stomach, moaning. She stood slowly, straightened up, and said, “You do not frighten me, god Camazotz.”

“I did not think that I would, Daughter Lord,” the god eventually said through the hoarse voice of Citali.

“You cannot make me do anything for you,” IxChan Pana said.

“That is true,” it said. “But if you do not follow my instructions, your people will be lost even to history.”

“We’ve already been lost. The Maya were lost when my father was taken prisoner by the laataa p’ook wach.”

“Truth. But my advice, if followed, will both keep the Maya alive in more than memory, and it will keep alive my memory until my people come to this world again to find my voice in my bones.”

Scowling, the Daughter Lord touched the breastplate of her dress and said, “How is that possible? I am the last Mayan aristocrat. When I die, there will be none left to speak with you or any other god. We will vanish without a people to follow us.”

“I will not vanish when your people forget my name. I will vanish when my own people forget my name.” It paused, as if what it had said was profound. “That is why I need you to do what I say.”

“You can’t tell me what to do! I am the Daughter Lord! These are my people!”

Camazotz spoke to Citali who first shook her head. IxChan Pana glared at the god, then softened her rage when the girl turned back to her and said, “The god wishes me to say, ‘These are not your people. They are the people of your father, Ajaw Kan Ek, Lord of Zac Petén.’”

IxChan Pana slapped the ch’uupal, sending her sprawling. She yelled for her guards outside the hut, shouting, “Kill her! Kill them all, then kill yourselves!”

Kish stepped between the gods and shouted, “Hold!” as he fell to his knees before her. She kicked him hard, then turned to leave. Her guards stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, spears raised.

She cursed, kicked Kish again, and said, “Let them all live, but hidden from the face of the Daughter Lord!” her followers fell prostrate as she staggered past them to her transport chair. Heart hammering in her chest, she leaped up to it and shouted, “Run! Run to my temple!”

As the sun set hours later, IxChan Pana sat on her granite block, watching random gusts of wind ripple through the treetops. Kish had returned a few hours ago. He didn’t make the climb to the top of the pyramid. She didn’t want to go down to him. She hoped she’d never see him again.

She ignored her worshippers where they stood in a tight crowd, practically silent, staring up at her. She was certain they were whispering among themselves. She was certain they all knew what had happened at the god’s hut. She no longer cared. She’d even sent Mahaway away. The old woman had wept on her way down to the ground, but IxChan Pana didn’t care. She would no longer need anyone to care for her. She would no longer eat. She would wait until her father returned to rule the Maya properly, and if he didn’t come back before she starved to death, who would care? Her hands trembled at the dark specter of death, but anything would be better than watching her people fade into the jungle and the name of her people fade from history.

The sun’s orb touched the horizon, then slid behind the world. Torches were lit in succession out from the main temple from Kish’s home fire. The lights flickered on until the entire peninsula was alight. As the last of the sunset faded into the spangled vault of the heavens, a violent rush of air nearly blew her from her block to the step below. With it came a stench she recognized. She straightened her breastplate and said, “Why come here?” There was no answer. “You can’t even harangue me! Why bother to come...” From the sky fell a disk an arm-span across, made of something that glowed faintly green with a spear upright in the center. It stopped falling beside the god. Something lay on the disk, wrapped around the spear. Camazotz stepped to the object then lifted something from it gently. It set down the ch’uupal, Citali. IxChan Pana cried, “She can’t be here! This is the pyramid to the Daughter Lord!”

Camazotz touched Citali, and she gasped, looked up at IxChan Pana, then rolled to her belly. “Forgive me, Daughter Lord, this god,” she gasped again, “... would have killed my mother if I did not...”

IxChan Pana held up her hand, “I do not hold you responsible, Citali. I hold this god...”

Camazotz spoke in the language of the conquistadores. Citali shook her head. The god leaned over her, its wings wrapping around her. She screamed then spun to IxChan Pana and said, “The god demands to know your answer to its offer of assistance, Daughter Lord! Please do not strike me dead!”

IxChan Pana glared at the god where it stood. In the light spilling up the pyramid’s steps from the courtyard’s torches below, she could see it tremble. Camazotz staggered past her and sat down on her granite block. It sat panting for some time, its tongue hanging out as if it were a dog. Finally it spoke, and Citali translated from her prostrate bow. “I must rest.”

“You are sitting....” IxChan exclaimed.

“Yes, I know Daughter Lord,” said Citali. She sat, crossing her legs, bowing over them so that her dark hair cascaded over her upturned hands. “I sit on your contemplation seat. I have one myself. It is the device that allowed Citali to fly here.” The ch’uupal whimpered after translating. Camazotz extended a wing to pat her on the head as if she were the dog, speaking to her in the conquistadores language. Camazotz looked back up to IxChan Pana and said, “Now we must talk.”

“I told you my answer,” she said, turning away.

“If you did, Citali did not translate it. I must kill her.” Camazotz shot out a wing again, this time grasping the girl by her hair and yanking up until her neck was exposed. She screamed.

“You do not need to kill her,” said IxChan Pana. “I had no answer for you.”

The god released Citali. “All I ask is that you hear my plan completely before you make a decision.”

As IxChan Pana turned to look over the jungle, a night breeze parted a path through the waving fronds. A lone torch moved beyond the fortifications between the city and the mainland. “Speak,” she said softly.

Camazotz began. Some of what he said made no sense to her. How could you have memories in your bones? Others she understood quite clearly. Of those, some of what the god said made sense—she had never considered recording all of the writing of her people and then sending copies of it with those leaving Zac Petén. Others she understood, but the god made it sound mysterious—she knew that a cenote was a natural pit. Sometimes they were full of fresh water, other times they were convenient to throw trash into. Why was it necessary to go to Merida far to the north, in order to deposit the bones of Camazotz in a particular cenote near a tiny village called Chicxulub? Why was it necessary to make burial in a cenote a new custom of the Itza Maya and to record it as if it had always been done? In the end, she said, “You think this will allow both you and my people to be remembered?”

“I will be remembered to my people. The written word and tales of the Maya will survive long into the future. So long, Daughter Lord, that were you to go to those Mayans who will descend from these people, their civilization would seem like one made up of gods.”

IxChan Pana shook her head and returned to her hut, calling for Mahaway. She’d seen the serving woman sneaking to the top of the pyramid, helping her priest and friend, Kish. She smiled a bit. Perhaps the god Camazotz was exactly as much a god as she knew herself to be.

“Mahaway! Attend me!” There was a long silence, then her serving woman shuffled out of a dark corner. IxChan Pana said, “We have some plans to make, my faithful, and you and Kish will help me—and then you shall stay behind as I leave on a journey for the god Camazotz.”

It took nearly a hundred days to make certain the plan of the Other god was as solid as possible. Kish had found young people willing to copy his records as he directed and sent out something Camazotz called a codex. With the guarantee of both the blessing of the Daughter Lord and a slab of gold, they were all but certain to find their way in the new world outside of the Itza.

During the day, Camazotz stayed in the hut atop the pyramid. One day, late in the afternoon, she knew that the meal would be her last here. Hatzkab was her favorite, the scrambled eggs mixed like a work of art done in chili peppers and onions, black beans with jalapeno, fried plantain, and white cheese cut with avocado—rather than stone or paint. It was usually a morning meal, but no more mornings remained to her. She leaned back against her contemplation stone, staring out over the deserted courtyard. Since the last of her people had melted into the jungles three days ago, moss and creepers had already appeared to reclaim their home.

Mahaway returned to IxChan, her service precise despite the tremor that shook her hands more and more often. She could not speak but lifted her eyes to the hut and nodded slowly. The Daughter Lord sighed and said in the language of the conquistadores, “The Other god draws near death.” It would be a choice she would have to face either sooner or later.

Crouching at her feet, Kish said, “You dishonor Camazotz by calling it the ‘Other god,’ Daughter Lord. You dishonor your people by speaking the language of the laataa p’ook wach.”

“The Other god insisted I learn their tongue in order that I may survive in this new world that no longer contains the empire of our people. Besides, it doesn’t seem to mind,” she said, standing, “that I use the name with affection.” Kish pretended to be scandalized. IxChan Pana smiled then said, “The Other god and I are siblings. It calls me Tialli.”

He could not keep his grim face as he said, “Of course. As always, you are the earth, I am a flag.”

“Indeed, Papan.” She sighed again. “I think the time is now. I think the Other god will die soon.” She strode to the hut that had been her home for the past four years. Mahaway had draped the entryway with heavily embroidered cloth to keep the light from the god’s eyes. Even moonlight seemed to bother it now. Citali had sat by the god’s side since it had collapsed ten days earlier. Pulling the drape back slightly, IxChan Pana ducked into the room.

The reek of decay was so overpowering, she feared it would seep through her clothing and into her soul. She no longer wore her robes of office, having changed them for the simpler gear of a common worker. Appalled, Mahaway had embroidered new clothing in bright colors and patterns fit for the last aristocrat of the people of Petén. Alongside Mahaway, Citali sat on a stool, looking at the Other god in the dimness.

Citali said suddenly, “The god Camazotz is dead, Daughter Lord.”

IxChan Pana nodded. It seemed so abrupt. Alive one day, dead the next. She wondered for a moment if her father had felt such a strangeness. Out of honor for Camazotz, she spoke in the language of the conquistadores, “When you have prepared its body as the god directed, tell me. I will leave before the sun rises.”

Citali said, “Yes, Daughter Lord.”

IxChan Pana left the hut, crossed the plat form and sat on her contemplation stone, look ing out across the deserted peninsula as the sun sank to the horizon then disappeared.

She hadn’t moved when Citali carried a package wrapped in bright cloths and laid it next to her. She bowed, then started down the pyramid steps. IxChan Pana said, “You may stay with Mahaway and Kish if you wish, girl.”

The ch’uupal bowed and replied, “You honor me, Daughter Lord, but my place is now with my family.”

“Do well then, Citali.” The girl vanished down the dark steps and into the night. IxChan Pana motioned to one of her young guards and said, “Go with her. Guard her and her family until they send you away. When they do, your life is yours.” The young man nodded then followed the ch’uupal. IxChan Pana smiled. They would make a strong, young couple; a foundation for the new Maya.

IxChan Pana knelt and added the package to her pack. It was surprisingly light, though she knew that it was only the bones of the Other god, Camazotz. It had described to her that it had a ritual that would remove all flesh from them and dry them as well. The Daughter Lord returned to her seat to await the brightening sky of morning.

She woke with a start. Though still sitting, she had slumped to the side of her stone with her head resting in the crook of her arm. A woven rug lay across her shoulders. Standing, she hoisted the pack on her back. Mahaway and Kish had protested uncounted times as she’d practically tumbled headfirst down the steps the first day the Other god had commanded her to begin training for her mission. After several days of that, and dragging herself up the steps of the pyramid over and over, she’d grown harder muscle as she looked to the journey north. Now she easily walked down, ran from the center of the city and onto the mainland and returned without breaking a sweat.

Mahaway and Kish stood now, one mute by the design of gods IxChan Pana knew nothing about, the other by choice. She said to them, “I am ready to carry the Other god’s bones to the cenote in Merida.”

“Then to the village of Chicxulub! Do not forget, Daughter Lord!”

She nearly kicked the insolent old man, then paused, her mouth twitching. She stood on the balls of her feet as the Other god had taught her and said, “Kish, I thought you were a priest of Itzamná, Kukulcán, Bolon Tzacab, Chac, and me, the Daughter Lord of Ajaw Kan Ek, Lord of Zac Petén?”

He sighed, shivering. “I have converted. I am an old man, the last of the priests for gods I have never once seen. But I have seen Camazotz. I will worship it and sacrifice to it until the day I die.”

“That is not faith, Kish.”

“It is assurance, Daughter Lord. Isn’t that why you agreed to the god’s plan? It assures that our people will be remembered for all time.”

IxChan Pana sighed then sat on her contemplation stone. The courtyard below was nearly empty, a few elders crossing it slowly, soaking up the strong, warming light. She said, “The god needed us to assure its place in the world, Kish, just as we needed its idea to assure our place.” She paused. “I thought our goals the same, but they are not. Camazotz had the nobler goal.”

“How, Daughter Lord?”

She saw the smirk on his face, the same look that would light his face when she mocked the conquistadores with their Mayan name. “It desires to use history to communicate with the future. My father, myself,” she lifted an arm and swept it to include all of the Mayan empire. “For us, our history has always been a way of stabilizing the present with ritual from the past.”

Kish waved her words away. “History is just a record of what’s been done. No more, no less. What has been done is irrelevant to what is being done now. What matters is what will be done.”

Placing her hands on her knees, IxChan Pana, the last Mayan aristocrat, shook her head. “I think you are wrong, my good and faithful priest. It is time for me to leave, I am only wasting time now that the sun has set on the Mayan empire.”

Kish snorted, “Your followers have gone before you.”

“Each one carries a codex, yes?”

“They do—in exchange for more godtouched food than Mahaway and I could eat in ten years—food that will somehow not rot.”

She grinned, “And a bit of gold as well, my priest and friend! I saw your bribes go out.” When he didn’t deny the accusation, she said, “Some of my warriors will remain behind to protect you.”

Mahaway bowed low, taking her Daughter Lord’s hand, kissing it, and letting her tears fall on it. Kish merely bowed and said, “May you live forever, Daughter Lord.”

“I will not, but your sentiment is appreciated.” She cinched the pack tighter, then headed down the steps to the ground. Without looking back, she set off for the north.

A month later, IxChan Pana, once Daughter Lord, now the last Mayan aristocrat, stood a morning’s walk outside of the village of Chicxulub. The cenote was exactly where the god, Camazotz had told her it would be.

She knelt, undid the package of the god’s bones and without ceremony, threw them as far out as she could. A moment later, there was a splash. Stones she’d added to it would assure that it would sink, to remain there until Camazotz’s people one day returned to cráter de meteorite—the Daughter Lord still stumbled over the alien language of the conquistadores—because it was the most important place in the Mayan empire. They would know to come here when it did not report its findings any more, then retrieve the package and read the history of the god in its bones....

Without standing, IxChan Pana removed another, smaller packet from her deflated burden. The food that the Other god had touched had indeed never rotted. It was tough and dry, but had stayed edible during the month-long trek. She looked at the pack, then threw it after the bones of the Other god and stood up.

The packet was one she had made herself without the knowledge of the god or Mahaway, Kish, her guards, or anyone else. It was a choice she now needed to make.

The way the Maya had always looked inward, keeping to themselves, fighting among themselves, speaking only to themselves, had come so close to making them vanish from history. There was still a chance that no one would know of the history of the Maya. Worse to her though, was that her people, their language, dances, songs, their culture would be lost forever in time. Everything IxChan Pana had ever known, loved, and enjoyed—like hatzkab—was dangerously close to disappearing.

It was the fault of her and her kind, the aristocrats of the Mayans. The poison in the packet would end her line; there would be no more aristocrats to endanger the people.

On the other hand, she could easily pretend to be Tialli, a granddaughter who had made business contacts in this rich foreign land for her grandfather in an old Maya city of Yalain, now a city of conquistadores.

She sat, looking out over the cenote. Perhaps the god’s people would come for its bones soon. She could wait, build a hut, live off the land; perhaps take the name of Citali. The chances of that future were slim indeed. She would die now, or live a life as a normal woman.

As the sun set, IxChan Pana; Daughter Lord of Ajaw Kan Ek, Lord of Zac Petén; the last Mayan aristocrat faded from view.

Guy Stewart is a husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather, science teacher, guidance counselor and writer – all rolled into one! With publications in Analog, Stupefying Stories, Cricket and Cicada, Shoreline of Infinity, Turtle, The Writer, and podcasts on Cast of Wonders, he writes science fiction, science experiments, historical fiction, and lots of essays. Residing in snow-packed Minnesota, he camps, bikes, and writes a blog at http://faithandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/.

Necessary Illusions

Tom Greene | 6705 words

Ilra took the corridor from her armoryboudoir and came into the Ouranos by the hidden door at the back. Her brother Pallaton already stood in his place on the raised Pontus at the center of the dome. Prismatic light from overhead colored the white skirts of his allcover, a twin of her own. Ilra walked with the small steps that her armored skirts allowed and mounted the Pontus. She found her place on Pallaton’s left, as always, by feeling through her slippers for the depression in the marble where generations of Successors had worn away the stone.

“They must be nearly here by now,” Pallaton said.

A rebuke? That would have been how Grandfather would do it.

“Any moment,” General Durath said from his place on Pallaton’s right.

Ilra presumed she was meant to feel guilty for dawdling. She sought within, as she’d learned in childhood, and found the mythotype of Klouwa the White Stone. She put on Klouwa and became impervious to guilt. And also to annoyance. Petitioners should be waiting for them in the Ouranos, not the reverse.

She said, “Are we even trying to stop them?”

Durath’s hand went to his earpiece. “I am only guessing at their approach by monitoring the loss of communications at my guard stations.”

Ilra regarded the closed doors. “Do we suppose it a coincidence that the offworlders have chosen to confront us two days before Landing Day?”

“We suppose nothing,” Pallaton said.

Ilra wondered which mythotype Pallaton was wearing. From her angle she could only see his left ear and part of his neck, covered with the ceremonial white mask paint they both wore. He faced forward and gave her no sign.

The brass doors opened and the offworlders came in. The two in front, walking in step, wore tar-black articulated armor with closed, featureless helmets. Those would be the Rakane soldier-servants. The third offworlder, walking slightly behind, was compact and a bit below average height. He wore a dark uniform with a cuirass made of the same shiny material as the others. He was bareheaded and darkhaired.

That would be the Dey officer.

They approached and, without visible signal, the Rakane halted together. The Dey continued a further three steps to the edge of the Pontus. His skin was copper, his features sharp. Without any sort of preamble, he spoke in their own language.

“I am Jaius Edonias,” he said. “Ensign of the Imperial Deep Space Fleet acting as mediator for the Pax Capricornus.”

His accent was very slight, his intonation flawless. Ilra moved only her eyes to Pallaton, who did not move or speak. He couldn’t also be wearing Klouwa; he hated Klouwa.

The Dey said, “You are Pallaton XVII, Auruspex of Iolus?”

A dissemblance of ignorance—how quaint. The Dey must know Pallaton, must know them all. Could Pallaton be wearing Thufsa the Haughty Hawk? But that narrative had no endgame here. Pallaton still said nothing. Ilra watched the offworlder for signs of anger, but if anything he became calmer.

“With all due respect,” the Dey said. “Your own council—”

“I weary of waiting for you to come to your point,” Pallaton said. “Speak, or begone.”

Not the Haughty Hawk—Kura the Mountain Ram. Ilra withdrew her hands from the sleeves of her allcover and rested them on the grips of the flechette throwers hidden behind her stomacher. The Dey put two gloved fingers into his sleeve (because she was Klouwa, her fingers did not twitch on the triggers) and brought out a small a roll of polimerex. He held it up.

“In this agreement, your council has declared that your world, Iolus, should become a tributary of the Pax. You are directed not to exercise your power of veto over this resolution.”

“Directed by whom?” Pallaton’s voice sounded strained. “By the council, which has no such authority? By the insurgent rabble you have allied yourself with? By you and your empire of pirates and robbers?”

The Dey put the document back into his sleeve. “The outcome is the same regardless. What is your answer, Auruspex?”

The Dey had failed to give him his honorific. That provided Kura a path to the Narrative of the Wronged Grandee. But Pallaton did not initiate the “Have I not reason to abhor” script. Instead, he raised his hands in the pose of supplication.

“This injunction I refuse, not for myself, but for the fate and future of my people...”

Not Kura—Picus, the Lamb of the Martyr. Ilra flicked open the safeties and began to turn, but her reactions were slowed because she was Klouwa. Her eyes went to the Dey, and she saw that he watched—not Pallaton—but herself. His eyes were green like jade. Pallaton was still reciting as Ilra froze with her gaze locked. The Dey said something in his own language and the Rakane moved.

One of them stepped forward and stabbed armored fingers into Durath’s throat, sending him to the floor. The other leaped on the Pontus and seized Pallaton, locking an arm behind his back and forcing him to bend forward at the waist. With his eyes still on her, the Dey stepped onto the dais. Ilra’s fingers tightened on the triggers, but she couldn’t be sure of missing her brother. The Dey took something from his sleeve, a transparent vial, and unstoppered it. He inverted it, and two small somethings tumbled out onto the back of Pallaton’s neck. The Dey stoppered the vial, looked at her, then spoke again in his own language.

There were strobing flashes and a thick mist. She was dazzled, but aware enough to hear the offworlders moving away. When she could see again, they were gone. Pallaton lay on the Pontus where they’d set him. Durath crouched over him, struggling for breath.

Ilra pried at her allcover’s clasps and wrenched out of the armored shell. She rushed to Pallaton.

“Don’t touch him,” Durath wheezed. “We don’t know what they used.”

She bent over her brother. On the back of his neck where bare skin showed between cap and allcover were two furry buttons like tiny mushroom caps.

Durath struggled to his feet. “My apologies, Cognizance. He would not let me inform you of the plan—”

“Plan?” She looked up, feeling Klouwa slip away. “ This was a plan?”

“The offworlders played into it precisely as expected...”

Ilra looked back down at Pallaton. Durath was going on about how she, as the new Auruspex, would now rally the people with the Narrative of the Martyr. But below the collar of the allcover she saw Pallaton shift with his breath.

“Wait,” she said. “They did not kill him.”

Ilra sat on the raised edge of the Pontus—a mild blasphemy, but she was alone in the Ouranos and she felt too sick with worry and fatigue to stand. The white mask was gone, her skin ached raw from the decontam scrubbing they’d given her, and she’d traded the allcover for a simple white tunic and breeches. She waited (how did these offworlders force them to break so with their traditions?) for servants to bring the old Imperial envoy up from the oubliettes.

She looked up at the inner surface of the dome, six meters overhead, at the amphorae in their copper brackets. Though most believed them to be purely decorative, the whole room was in fact a relic of the Ship, its secrets intelligible only to those in the line of succession. Ancient sensors, also salvaged from the Ship and concealed in commemorative arches built in every population center on Iolus, collected data on the emotional state of citizens who passed near them. Those data were transmitted here and rendered as a real-time map of the collective mood of the citizens in each region. There, in a scattering of vessels small as perfume bottles, twinkled the amber sense of purpose that suffused the pioneers in the Ilgezg mountains. There, in a barrel-sized tank representing the coastal towns, glowed the teal satisfaction of the newly prosperous merchant class. And here, at the apex of the dome, shone the steady crimson of the capitol itself. The sensor network had been used for the same purpose during the long generations of the Passage, giving the Auruspex ample warning of where trouble lay well before it could manifest.

Now Ilra looked near the edge of the dome, where a dark polyp of disturbance had overwhelmed the insurgents of the Eupheia Forests, sending out tentacles of disruption to neighboring communities. The disruption had begun a fortnight ago with the arrival of the Dey warship—a bright new star over Iolus. The insurgents were of no concern; agents among them made them a useful puppet for staging certain politically necessary events. But in allying with them, the offworlders had created a dangerous, uncontrolled influence that threatened the foundations of the peace, unbroken for five centuries since the Ship had brought the first Iolians as colonists from ancient Terra.

Ilra wrapped her arms around herself and looked away from the dome. Pallaton, influenced by his clique of courtiers, had been content to wait for the offworlders to act. Now he lay in the infirmary below, insensible to all the doctors’ efforts to rouse him. Ilra had sat at his bedside all night, feeling hopeful when the objects the offworlders put on his neck had blackened and fallen away, then dismayed when he had not awoken. Then, in the morning, the courtiers had come: the Crew elite with their sycophantic sympathies, every one of them eyeing her with expectation, their gazes lingering on the misericorde, the mercy knife at her belt. It was the Successor’s single unquestionable prerogative: to judge when an Auruspex can no longer serve, to remove him, and take his place. Landing Day would begin tomorrow morning, and an auspicious ceremony required a proper Auruspex.

Ilra did not have the patience to wait for the offworlders. She habitually mistrusted courtiers and advisors. Yet she needed to know what they had done to her brother, and for that information, she could think of only one possible source.

The doors opened, and two servants wheeled in the rack. Ilra stood. She would want a powerful mythotype to face the Gnostican envoy, even in his degraded state. She sought within, and found Wejack. Growing up among the intrigues in the palace, she had often worn Wejack the Fisher Cat, who exhausts his porcupine prey with harassing bites to its vulnerable face and eyes. She shrugged the myth on like an old comfortable coat.

The servants stopped the rack midway to the Pontus and locked the wheels. (One of the servants was elderly and would remember how it had been done in her grandfather’s time.) Ilra approached. Droplets glistened from the frame where they had hosed it off, but the smell still made her want to retch. The servants tilted the rack upright so that the prisoner faced her. Pallaton, in his time as Successor, had been present for some of Grandfather’s “questioning” sessions, but Ilra had never seen the envoy herself, and Pallaton never spoke about it.

The servants made their obeisance and left, closing the door behind them. It was a few moments before Ilra could speak. All the care she had taken about putting her countenance in order had been futile; the prisoner had only blackened sockets where his eyes had been.

“Can you hear?”

His head turned toward her voice. “I hear,” he said in Iolian. “Is that little Ilra, the grand daughter?”

Rather a meager pass at belittlement. “Acting Auruspex Ilra.”

“My apologies, Cognizance,” he said. His voice was cheerful, his accent almost musical. “I don’t get much news down my way.”

She frowned. “I have questions. I am told that Gnosticans do not lie.”

“I am an adept of the inmost mysteries of the Logos Omnium. I abhor all corrupting influence of falsehood.”

Ilra pictured Wejack, circling the prey’s flared spines. “That is not precisely an answer.”

“If I answer, my answers will be truthful.”

“But you will not answer all questions?”

He waved—as best he could in the re straints—the stump where his right arm had been. “Much to your grandfather’s consterna tion during our many consultations.”

Ilra paused for a breath. “We have never met. How do you know me?”

“The Byzantine labyrinth of Iolian succession is a particular study of mine. The last two in the line were males. Your voice marks you as older than the prepubescent girl who, I take it, must now be your own Successor. Ergo—”

“Six years ago,” Ilra said, “a farmer in Nevenna province found an object in his fields, apparently fallen from the sky, a sort of spy drone with suggestions of malfunctioning stealth capability. It disintegrated before it could be secured. What was this object, and was it the only one of its kind?”

The envoy smiled. His teeth were incongruously white and straight. He said nothing.

Ilra said, “Fifteen days ago, your masters the Dey Heirarchs—”

“Point of information,” the envoy said. “The Dey are not our masters. Gnostica is co-equal in the Pax Capricornus.”

Ilra raised an eyebrow. “They control the military, and you believe yourself co-equal?”

“They relieve us of the burden of defending ourselves from unwanted encroachments, and we relieve them of the burden of research and information management. It’s an endlessly fascinating dichotomy—a triumvirate, really, including the Rakane. If you like, I can make you up a bibliography—”

“The Dey have a ship in orbit. Tell me about this ship.”

“What is its name?”

“My information says it is called Katzbalger.”

The envoy turned his empty eye sockets slightly upward and to the left. The Imperials must have thousands of ships in their fleet. Even if the Gnostican had a prodigious memory, some of the ships would have changed during the decades of his imprisonment. He was referring to something.

“A Kryss class cruiser. Earned her share of battle stars during the Vaala expansion, but in this age of Cyclopius cruisers and Rex Astrus Warsuns, she has been relegated to smuggling patrol and mopping up isolated patches of unconquered—”

“Crew complement?”

The envoy glanced up and to the left again. “Six Dey officers, perhaps a score of Rakane crew. They may be under-crewed due to lack of expected resist—”

“How many on the surface and how many in orbit?”

“Standard procedure is to shuttle down everyone except a single rotating officer with a skeleton crew and construct a campus in an isolated—”

“Why do they leave so few above?”

“In transit from the jump locus, the ship simulates gravity by acceleration. But in orbit, microgravity causes skeletal and muscle degen—”

“Why did they come now?”

The envoy paused. “Please clarify.”

Ilra pressed her lips together. He was too clever for simple tricks.

“Fifty years ago, when you first arrived alone on Iolus, you said the Empire would come someday. Yet you have languished all that time in our prisons without apparent hope of rescue. And now suddenly they come, demanding their tribute, reinforcing our insurgents, threatening the stability of our society. Why now?”

The envoy shrugged in the restraints. “It may be that they’ve just gotten round to you. The empire is rather busy. Or perhaps someone announced a new exploration plan? A lunar foray?”

Ilra raised a hand to her mouth, then lowered it. She reasserted Wejack before she spoke.

“Why should that matter?”

“Harbinger archeological sites are strictly forbidden to nonImperials. That is always an immutable part of the treaty.”

So it was about the moon sites—the structures abandoned by the ancient, unknown terraformers. She had tried to tell Pallaton that it was a mistake to pursue the expedition, but he would not listen.

Ilra said, “If this is a conquest, why does the empire send so few?”

“Twenty armored Rakane troopers are more than enough to exterminate the three billion inhabitan—”

“Then why do they hesitate?”

“Months, perhaps years to root out every native insurgent? Then an uninhabited planet renders no tribute. Generations to repopulate from other worlds, generations more for the new colonists to optimize production. Better by far to simply conquer the existing population, who have already adapted to the local—”

“So this ‘mediator,’ his task is to make us submit?”

“Ten thousand worlds without a drop of blood,” the envoy said. “As they saying goes. Thousands more, of course, required quite considerable blood. But it’s a matter of pride for the Mediator Corps where possible...”

Ilra stopped listening and let the envoy go on for the moment. Without a drop of blood. The palace guards they had disabled yesterday had been unharmed, felled by crystalline darts that the Rakane fired with precision from hidden weapons. There was not even an injury from a fall—the unknown toxins compelled victims to lie gently down before becoming insensible.

Ilra said, “Does he not know...”

She hesitated, but there was no way to ask without revealing more than she wished.

“The mediator must know,” she said, “that incapacitating an Aruspex will not avail him any advantage.”

The Gnostican had no eyebrows, but the webwork of scars where they would have been quirked upward.

“The mediator has naturally not made me privy to his plans, but you can be certain he is familiar with your laws of succession—”

“How is he familiar?”

The Gnostican pursed his lips and said nothing.

Ilra looked down at the stumps where the envoy’s legs had been, over the scars and gouges that pocked the drum-tight skin over his ribs. She became aware again of the smell of filth, and the almost sweet stench of gangrenous decay from where the restraints cut at him.

“Even after they let you suffer all this, you are still loyal to them?”

The envoy tilted his head “It’s not as bad as all that. Your grandfather’s untimely passing left me with a hand for scratching.” He raised his hand as if to demonstrate, then let it drop back. “I also have ears to hear questions, and a mouth with which to answer, though perhaps that was more practicality than kindness. The old man was rather inconsiderate about my teeth, and your language is quite daunting to annunciate without them, so I must apologize for having grown those back. But these are hardly the worst that an envoy might suffer on a first contact mission. The case of Geminus Glaucus, for instance—”

“Iolus never intended you the slightest harm,” she said. “All we wish is to be left alone to cultivate our own dream of universal purpose and prosperity.”

The envoy paused. “I have never had the privilege of an introduction to my neighbors who come and go in the examination chambers below over the years. But I have often heard, through the walls, their unequivocal testaments regarding the true nature of your world of universal purpose and prosperity.”

She frowned. “We have order. We have peace.”

The envoy waved his remaining hand in a gesture of dismissal. “The empire has no interest in how you run your world. As long as the tribute flows and the harbinger sites remain quarantined, you are at liberty to disport your tin-plated pantomime of a government just as you please.”

“You would insinuate yourselves. You have already captured the imagination of some of our elites with smuggled luxuries and technologies.”

The envoy closed his lips, and Ilra sensed she had him. She drew a breath and felt Wejack rise into her consciousness and was about to initiate the Narrative of the Convictor to deceive him into anger—in which he might let slip they key to what they had done to Pallaton.

But he spoke first.

“Woe unto you for this, the nemesis you have sought to elude. Providence has ordained her course, and the skeins of fate once loosed cannot be bound up again.”

Ilra’s mouth hung open. It was the opening of the Narrative of the Doomsayer, which every member of the succession learned from the secret teachings, but which hadn’t been used to her knowledge in all the history of Iolus.

“Oh, yes,” the envoy said. “Another particular study of mine has been your own mechanisms of control, and, I must admit, I have been impressed. No ham-handed excesses of thuggery for Iolus. Your ancestors have raised to a high art the techniques for generating the necessary illusions. To have your people believe that the insurgency is an imminent threat, that the elite work for the good of the populace, that the pioneer spirit you’ve subverted to restrict your expansion justifies the material sacrifices the people make for your benefit. The Diaspora saw many colony ships depart Terra during the time of your ancestors. Not by a long stretch are you the first to try that martyr trick.”

Ilra closed her mouth. She waved at the control to open the doors.

“You and your ‘Pax,’“ she said, “are nothing but a gang of common bandits.”

“You grasp the heart of the matter at last,” he said. “Our advantage, little Ilra, is that we never make the error of believing our own propaganda.”

The servants came in.

“I sense I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said. The servants tilted the rack backward and Ilra could swear she saw the empty eye sock ets sweep the dome of the Ouranos—as if he could see.

“I must be going now,” he said. “I have a little monograph to publish on all this.”

She watched them wheel the rack out, then waved the doors closed.

Ilra rushed down the hallway toward the infirmary. They had finally persuaded her to get some sleep, then almost immediately woken her with the news. When she got to Pallaton’s room, he was sitting up in his bed talking with Durath. He looked at her. She had been about to go to him but felt suddenly hesitant. Something about his look.

“Are you all right?” she said.

Pallaton ran his a hand over the pale bristles on his scalp. “The custodians can’t find any lasting effect.”

“Then why did the Imperials...”

“Apparently their plan went astray,” Pallaton said. “They must have meant to kill me, but their poison failed.” He glanced at Durath. “We were just observing that it gives us the rare opportunity to craft the narrative of Tfain Who Was Wounded Yet Did Not Die. The council will not dare to challenge me in that mythotype.”

Ilra frowned. “Can you be certain? We have no experience dealing with galactic powers. Can we wager on the utter incompetence of those who have conquered thousands of worlds like ours?”

“There is no world like ours,” he said. “No one else has the mythotypes, and without them no one can have achieved such control. The Imperials must be confounded.”

“If you need more time, I can preside...”

“Of all days, the people need to see their Auruspex on Landing Day. The Ouranos must be in turmoil.”

Ilra looked away. It was true. Rust-colored intrusions of unease loomed all through the dome. The most important thing was that the people must not be allowed to think that anything was wrong.

Pallaton said, “I know that look.”

She met his eyes. He smiled.

“We will weather this, Illie. No one has been harmed. We have not lost face or position with the Crew or the Council. We have everything to gain.”

She let her face become impassive. Now that he was awake, it wasn’t as though she could question his orders anyway—not anymore. Pallaton rubbed the top of his head again.

“Left me with quite a knock, though. Reminds me of that time we were riding on Crewesvale Ridge and that gelding balked— what was his name?”

“Ambler,” Ilra said. “You never would listen, riding half-wild Chruighy ponies—”

He laughed. Ilra felt the tension in her shoulders ease.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Citizens had been arriving all night, filling the terraced boxes surrounding Disembarkation Square so that, as the dawn waxed gray in the sky, thousands fidgeted and purled in the stands. Ilra waited with Pallaton in the staging chamber, both of them in full regalia. She watched the crowd on a remote view panel and saw how the usually festive Landing Day mood had been colored by unease. Reassurance was what they wanted. She glanced at Pallaton, envious of his apparent confidence. She was tempted to hide in Klouwa, but she needed her reactions to be swift. If something were going to happen, it would happen here.

The rim of the sun crested Proficiency Place, and the ceremony began just as it had for centuries. A single drum thrummed two notes. The crowd quieted. The drum sounded again, then a third time, and silence blanketed the square. Resonators surrounding the square crackled to life and the original, static-laden recording from the Ship was heard.

“All personnel, brace for landing.”

In the bandstand, six batteries of steam drums crescendoed, joined by the discordant blare of the klaxons. Sound filled the square, swallowing the people’s shouts and driving children to cover their ears with their hands. Then the vast circular vent at the center of the square fired to life, blasting a tower of blue flame fifty meters high with a roar like the end of the world, bathing the stands in a feverish wind.

Then all sound stopped. The flame cut off (and the safety hatch whirred shut over the vent) and in the sudden silence, the recorded voice played.

“All passengers to stations. Prepare to disembark.”

The wall in front of Ilra opened and she followed Pallaton up the ramp, both of them in their armored allcovers, peaked caps, and painted white masks. At the top of the ramp, they emerged onto the ziggurat at the center of the square. Exaltations from the stands washed over her, but she kept her face expressionless, her body still, as she took up her usual place behind and to the left of her brother. The resonators crackled again, still loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

“Deploy landing hatches. All hatches to the open position.”

At the west end of the square, lights ringing a metal arch fifty feet high thumped on and the giant portal, itself a relic of the Ship, hummed down to become a ramp, a sight only seen on this one day of the year. To the cadences of the drums and the sound—softer now—of the klaxons, the paraders marched through the arch and into the square. They walked in step, chosen coteries of honored citizens selected for this distinction. Some of them bore banners or implements of their trades; some wore or carried mementos of the Passage, or even treasured relics of ancient Terra itself. At the end of its march, each group lined up in its traditional location according to the part of the Ship that their ancestors had lived and died in during the generations of the Passage.

Against her will, Ilra felt herself moved by the drama of the ceremony. Rationally she knew better—knew that every detail from the geometry of the ziggurat to the waveforms of the instruments were engineered by the Custodians of Psychology to provoke the desired emotional responses. But she could not help but feel the crowd’s energy resonate with her own agitation.

Yet her awareness of the ever-present video pickups and her knowledge that her face (and Pallaton’s) was closely watched at every moment by Iolus’s billions forced her to conceal her apprehension. Only lifelong practice made it possible for her to maintain the required expression of detached benevolence—the same expression both of them wore on their official portraits, commemorative icons, and public statuary. Everything she might feel was subordinate to the need to be present before the people in this way, to maintain the illusion of supremacy, to embody the role of the worshipful eidolon on which all Iolians could impose their individual hopes and aspirations.

Citizens now climbed the terraces of the ziggurat, honorees chosen by each group ranked around the square. A stout, red-faced mogul from Starboard A4 had just lumbered up the last few steps, and behind him a wizened, grayhaired veteran of the Antrios uprisings in her shabby uniform with its scattering of faded ribbons won in forgotten battles. As the citizens reached the platform, each laid a hand briefly on the herm before going to his or her designated place.

The herm was a vaguely pyramidal stone, black in color, just over two meters tall, its sides carved in all the known languages of men—and many unknown—with a single word: “Hospitality.” Atop the herm sat an unnaturally beautiful human head cast in a shining alloy, the right side stripped to reveal a human skull beneath. An indestructible relic left behind by the unknown terraformers, the Iolian elite had learned from the offworlders that the herms existed on every planet where humans had migrated during the long ages of the Diaspora. The Iolian populace, of course, had long ago been fed a fairy tale that the ancestral crew elite had terraformed Iolus for the benefit of the people and made the herm as a symbol of their largesse. As with many other things, only the inmost circle knew the truth: that the herm, along with the imported Terran biosphere, had been on Iolus long before the arrival of the Ship.

The ceremony went on. By the time the last group had marched out under the arch, the sun was well up. As the final honoree reached his place, the drums and sirens fell silent. In the stillness, Pallaton stepped to the binnacle that suspended the Captain’s Bell, their most sacred relic of the Ship. Its polished brass gleamed in the sunshine despite its considerable age. Pallaton lifted the striker from its hook and raised it high. The crowd waited in hushed anticipation for the triple peal that commemorated the original claiming of Iolus. Ilra tensed, trying to watch everything at once.

Pallaton moved so fast—she was vaguely surprised he could do that in an allcover—and slammed into her, and she was falling. Their armored garb clashed on the ground and her head struck the pavement, stunning her. She tried to move, but his weight pinned her. She heard the rhythmic thumping, his hips thrusting into her, pounding against the inside of his skirts. His breath panted rank in her face, the paint cracked along the seams of his features, he pawed at the clasps of her harness. Then others—the old veteran was the first there— were seizing him and pulling him away. Pallaton shrieked, his face twisted into a mask of rage, and wrenched free. He fell on her and brought his spittle-flecked lips down to her cheek. His gnashing teeth found flesh, and she screamed.

Ilra stepped into the cell and closed the door behind her. Pallaton lay on the floor, propped against the wall, wrapped neck-to-ankle in compression restraints. He looked at her.

“Why am I here?”

Ilra stepped forward. Her slippers sank into the reflexopore floor. The bandaged side of her face throbbed in tempo with her heart.

“They told me you would feign not to remember,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

She continued slow steps. “The Imperials sent a data chit revealing what they did to you.”

“Why would they do that?”

She didn’t answer, thinking, why would they not, now that it has done its work? But the biomedical custodians had verified the infestation—a custom genemodded creature, a sort of fungus, with microscopic tendrils spread through his brain.

“The offworlders did something to me.”

She nodded, took another step.

“Can it be cured?”

Would Pallaton ask such a question? As if she would allow any delay? But they had told her it did not control his brain. It only suppressed certain inhibitions, and augmented other impulses. It lay mostly dormant, until it sensed the attention of the people on him. “It cannot be removed without killing you.”

Pallaton shifted himself more upright. “Well then, release me and summon Durath. We must craft the appropriate narrative.”

She took another step. “There can be no narrative.”

“What are you saying?”

Ilra sought within and found Aestih the Summer Shadow. All this would pass through Aestih and leave her untouched. She brought her hand out from behind her back and showed him the misericorde.

His eyes went to the knife, then back to her.

“Treason.”

“Everyone saw.”

“Slander.”

“Before they killed the feeds, the people saw their Auruspex attempting to—” Ilra would have flinched, but Aestih merely flickered “— to despoil his sister. Everyone saw what you tore away in your teeth, the blood on your face, how you swallowed.”

“Lies.”

She took another step. “They said you are still aware of it, are plotting, even now, for another opportunity.” She stood over him. Her unbandaged eye searched his face. “What does it feel like, I wonder?”

Pallaton looked at her and his expression changed in stages, as though he were taking on a mythotype. But this was no mythotype. It was something altogether darker.

“Do it”—he said, flicking his eyes to the knife—“and find out for yourself.”

Then he began thrashing on the floor, shrieking the foulest insults at her. She dropped to her knees and bared the dagger. She wrapped one arm around him (he tried to kick away) and laid the edge against the side of his neck. The smell of his bowels voiding hit her, and she flicked the knife. Blood splashed on the wall and on her. She held him. His struggles became frantic, then—surprisingly quickly—slowed. His curses became spasming croaks. Paleness washed into his face, and he stilled. She stayed there, holding him, until his last throb of life ebbed away.

She dropped the misericorde (as of this moment it belonged to her Successor anyway) and walked out past Durath and the science custodians, disregarding their questioning looks, their pitying eyes. She went through the corridors to the main palace, ignoring the reactions of those who saw her, blood-spattered and fey. She passed through the Ouranous; a maelstrom of darkness swirled through the dome. What kinds of uncontrolled narratives were taking form out there among the people? Pallaton the Depraved. Pallaton the Beast. Aestih was leaving her now, and she felt possessed by a myth wholly unfamiliar.

(This must be what it feels like, she thought, then thrust the thought away.)

In the Auruspex’s chambers—her chambers now—she took the hidden escape to the secret stair. At the top, she shrugged into the straps of the flying belt, a precious relic of the Ship that she had only worn once before during the emergency training. She opened the roof hatch, thumbed the actuator, and flew up into the night.

The warm summer air cut through her tunic. Her hair pulled loose and whipped her face. She would not sit waiting for them to infest her with offworld horrors or make her into a monster. It was time to put a face on the shadows in the Ouranos, to confront them in their own den.

The city passed under her, then the meadows, then the plain. The wind dried the blood on her neck and arms, and her face pulsed under the bandage as the analgesics wore off. When she saw the dark line of the forest, she cast about in the blue moonlight until she found the road, then landed. The black-armored Rakane met her before she had gone a hundred yards. He gestured silently for her to follow (they must not all bother to learn the local language, she realized) and led her for perhaps five minutes before the trees thinned to a perimeter of scorched stumps that made up the killzone around the offworlders’ campus. There was an earthen berm and, beyond that, slumping structures barely visible in the dark. The mediator stood waiting at a gap in the earthworks.

“I would have come to you,” he said.

She walked past him into the camp, unbuckled the flying belt, and let it clatter to the ground. The camp had ancient technology sitting beside new: canvas tents, and watchfires that burned actual wood, and dark pylons covered with sensor nodes and weapon muzzles. The hulking Rakane in their dark armor moved silently in and out of the firelight.

“I can offer you a private tent if you wish,” the Dey said. “A wash and a change of clothes.”

Ilra ignored that. Instead she looked around and saw a pair of camp chairs—canvas stretched over wooden frames—beside a fire. She walked over and sat in one of the chairs. The Dey followed and sat in the other, not exactly facing her. She attempted to push her hair away from her good eye, but Pallaton’s blood had made it a mat of tangles, so she let it stay.

After a moment she said, “My guards tell me the old Gnostican envoy is gone from his cell.”

“Is he?” The Dey looked at the fire rather than at her. His eyes flickered malachite.

She said, “He signaled you about the lunar expedition.”

“Yes.”

“He could have left at any time.”

“Yes.”

“So he only lingered to play his part?”

“Yes.”

What a strange bluntness he had. Ilra sought within, but all the mythotypes seemed hopelessly thin. Inadequate toys against this unnerving candor.

She spoke as herself.

“It’s the oldest problem of conquest. How do you overthrow a charismatic leader? If you kill him, then the people will worship his ghost. If you enfeeble or defame him, the peo ple will rally around his tragedy. So what can you do?”

“You make him contemptible.” The Dey looked at her now with his glittering eyes. “All humans everywhere share instincts that overwhelm your mythotypes. Press the mind in a particular way, and it responds predictably, without reason. The narrative is incidental.”

Ilra thought about the herm. All humans everywhere. Maybe that was the meaning of the effigy on top: different worlds, cultures, languages, but always the same human skull, the same brain. The one cage humans can never escape.

“Pallaton was younger than I.” Ilra looked at her palms where the grips of the flying belt had rubbed away most of the blood. “I had hoped he would outlive me.”

“Do you regret your decision?”

“No.” She dropped her hands. “He chose his fate the moment you arrived. You only delayed his death to suit your ends.”

The Dey said nothing.

In a moment she said, “All our power here depends on deception, masks, mythologies, narratives. Yet you seem to be overthrowing us by telling the truth.”

“Thank you.” He looked back at the fire. “My task here is to make you see your own self-interest in a particular path. But the truth is, you always have a choice. “

An armored Rakane stepped out of the shadows, bent to put Ilra’s flying belt on the ground beside her, then faded back into the dark. She looked at the belt. It was folded exactly as it should be. The fuel meter showed a full recharge. The Dey was telling her that she could fly, and he wouldn’t stop her.

That is, until he came to destroy her, to make her into a monstrosity with whatever offworld abominations he still held in his arsenal, leaving the remains of Iolus in deeper chaos, in the hands of her inexperienced Successor. Unless, of course, the then-Successor, a middleaged uncle, decided to stick the misericorde in her... and so forth until the Dey eventually found a congenial Auruspex. Then what would be left of the five hundred years of peace and order? How would history remember her? Ilra the Destroyer. Ilra the Betrayer. Ilra the Craven.

She looked across the fire at him. His eyes watched her much as they had in the Ouranos that first time.

“I want—” She stopped, then started again. “I will have an offworld advisor. To learn from. Your empire’s vaunted skill at conquest has served you well. Now it can serve me.”

“That is easily accomplished,” the Dey said. “In fact, I believe the envoy may be pleased to stay on here after he has finished his regenerative treatments. I’ll have the agreement amended immediately.”

He gestured, and a Rakane appeared. He turned in his chair and gave orders in his own language. Ilra sat back in her chair. It seemed that all their deceptions had ceased to serve them and had become a liability. It was frightening to imagine where this all might lead. Would they dismantle the Ouranos? Put more power into the hands of the people? Close the oubliettes and destroy the succession? Would she be remembered as Ilra the Last?

She almost smiled. That might not, she thought, be such a bad thing.

The Dey turned from his Rakane servant and looked at her. “While we wait for the amended settlement, would you care for ghaehveh?”

The infamously bitter offworld beverage that everyone hated at first, then could not resist. Was he mocking her? The symbolism was too apt. Or perhaps—and this was the strange thought—he meant nothing by it.

Ilra nodded to him. This business of telling the truth would take some getting used to.

The Dey signaled and the towering soldier faded from the firelight. Shortly he came back with a tray bearing various metallic vessels. He set it on folding legs between them and left.

“If I might advise for your first time, Cognizance, sugar and milk soften the flavor.”

“How do you drink it?”

“Black.”

Ilra leaned back and stretched her feet out to feel the fire’s warmth. “Then by all means, let us drink it your way.”

Paradise Regained

Edward M. Lerner | 5556 words

Illustrated by Eldar Zakirov

My head hurts. I expect it: This is winter. I want it to be spring.

Paradise does not ask what I want.

The winter is young, and I think the dogs are not yet so hungry as to attack me. Still, I hold tight to my spear. Dogs or no dogs, the spear helps me walk through the knee-deep snow.

Only trees show above the snow, and I do not know what is under. In winter, asleep, the plants cannot scream when I step on them.

Because they are asleep, Father told me. Long ago. Before Mother died. Before I left home. I did not understand what he meant. I do not now.

I think Father is gone, too. “Watch the flag,” Father told me, long ago, pointing at the tall pole that stood near Ship. “I will change the flag every day. Unless... I can’t. Then you must come. You must.”

From a high hill in my part of the forest, around a great curve of the sea, I look every day for a spot of color on top of the pole. Day by day, the spot changes color. Once, I knew the names of the colors. No more. Talking only to myself, the words go away. But then a day came when the color did not change. Not the next day. Not the day after. Not in... many days.

I see I do not remember numbers, either.

“I come, Father,” I say to the wind. To the snow. To the plants asleep under the snow. To myself. “I will do as I...”

I fight to remember a word. Like the names of colors, like the numbers, over the years this word has gone away from me. As the silence stretches, I finish, as best I can, “Father, I will do as you asked.”

I talk to myself as I walk, hoping to remember enough to do as Father made me...

And the lost word comes back! I will do as Father made me promise.

I push on. Here and there on the snow, I see the footprints of mice. Both kinds of mice.

“The four-leg kind are mice,” Father once said. (Four, I think, is the number of my hands and feet. Encouraged, I try to count my fingers. With two fingers to go, I have no more numbers.) “They are like us. The six-leg kind were always on Paradise. My father said calling them mice was a label of convenience.”

I did not know what this convenience was. When I told Father that he knew many things, he smiled sadly. “I forget more than I know, and I never knew as much as my father. Years from now you will understand.”

What more do I understand now than then? Only that I also forget.

In the hills to my right, dogs howl. (All dogs have four legs. All animals bigger than mice have four legs. I never thought to ask Father why.) I tell myself again the winter is young, and the dogs can find easier prey to attack than me. And if I am wrong? Then the dogs will eat. Or I will have new, warm, fur boots. Or we will all die, and another creature of Paradise will eat.

Gripping my spear, I press on.

I come to rocky shore kept clear of snow by the wind off the sea. I still walk slow, because the rocks are slippery with ice. But at last, passing a clump of trees, their fronds bent almost to the ground by ice and snow, I see Ship.

It stands near the flagpole. Ship looks smaller than I remember. Maybe I think so because I am bigger now, or the trees are. I have not seen Ship—or Father—since my body first began to grow hair and I had to go.

Ship stands as tall as two of me, as long as... I cannot count that many. It has wings, a little like some bugs. I remember bug is a label of convenience, too.

I am tired, and the sun is low in the sky, when I come to Ship. It is closed. Near the door are the faded words: Air Lock. I know the words, but never understood them. Father never understood them, either.

I push my hand against Ship, just below the writing, as I learned to do long ago. The door stays closed. After a while, I remember to push without my mitten.

Ship knows my bare hand. The door slides open, and I step in. As the door closes behind me, a lamp comes on over my head. I shake, just a little, until the other door opens in front of me. Just as I remember, Ship’s inside is warm and bright without any fire. By Ship’s light, I see two beds, empty, and a shelf with more... books than I can count. I see and smell sacks of grain and dried fruit and dried meat. And I smell Father’s reek. Years ago, as I grew up, suddenly that reek was all I smelled. As suddenly, to Father’s nose, I made my own reek. Before I killed Father, or Father killed me, he sent me away.

Strongest of all, I smell death.

In the other room, by the ever-blinking colored lights, beside Ship’s shiny things I never understood and I learned young never to touch, I find Father.

Father is in his chair, slumped forward onto a table. His hair and beard, that I remember as very dark, are white almost as the snow outside. He wears only a shirt. Much of his left leg is an awful shade of... I still do not remember the names of colors. The pale color of sick leaves. He does not move when I call out. He is cold and does not move when I touch him.

I think the sickness in his leg killed him.

In one hand, he holds a charcoal stick. Some paper is beneath the other hand. I understand only a few words on the paper. I have forgotten the shape of many words, but I do not think that is my problem. I think that, near the end, Father’s hand shook as he wrote.

Where snow does not cover the ground, it is still frozen. I walk along the shore, gathering stones the size of my fist. Many, I must first break loose from ice. When I have enough stones, I carry Father outside. He is lighter than I expected.

The work is hard. I hope the stones I pile over him will keep away the dogs until spring, when I might put him into the ground. For a while, far away along the shore, someone watches. Bundled in furs like me, only her lack of a beard shows me this is a woman. It is winter, so, of course we stay far away.

The sun goes down as I stack rocks. Even as more snow begins to fall, sweat runs down my body. As I work, a familiar bright spot streaks overhead. Big Ship.

“Why does that star move so fast?” I once asked Father. I was very young then. Mother was still alive.

“My father told me Big Ship is not a star,” Father said. “It is more like the moons.”

And it did move across the sky like the moons, only faster than both of them.

“But it is small,” I had said. “Much smaller than Ship. How can that be Big Ship?”

“Think about it,” was all Father would say.

If Big Ship is a big Ship, it must be very far away. I wonder how Father, or Father’s father, could know such a thing.

By moons’ light, I finish covering Father in stones, but inside Ship it is still as bright as midday. Too bright for sleep. I remember something more from when I lived here. “Ship,” I say, “night-time light.”

“Yes, sir,” Ship says, speaking from a wall. The light goes down. One of Ship’s eyes opens wide, buzzing like a bug as it does. “To watch over us as we sleep,” Father would say.

Ship is a tool, like my stone knife or wooden spear or blanket. I understand tools. But unlike my knife, I do not know how to make a Ship. I tell myself understanding this is work for another day. I tell myself, I must stay strong, and rest, to keep my promise.

Outside it is cold and the wind howls. I must spend the night, among the smells, inside Ship. Ignoring my winter headache, I lie down on one of the beds.

I try, but I do not sleep.

My promise to Father was that, when he was gone, I would help Ship. I would keep Ship safe. And I would teach a child of my own to do this after me.

“And if I do not have a child?” I asked.

“Then teach another man’s child,” Father said. “You must.”

And I had promised. But how could I do any of that?

The morning after stone-covering Father for the winter, I ask, “Ship? How can I help you?”

“I don’t think you can.” As always, Ship’s colored lights blink just a little faster when it speaks. I do not know why. “At least not yet.”

“How did Father help you?”

“He taught you to read. And he waited.”

“Waited for what, Ship?”

“For me to finish.”

Father said Ship is always right. That, I remember, though I do not understand. Why make me promise to come back? To wait? To do nothing?

I say, “You must need something.”

“Yes,” Ship says. “I need helium-3.”

I think I understand. When his leg went bad, Father could not walk. “I will go. Where can I find this... helium?”

“Nowhere on Paradise,” Ship says. “Perhaps on what you call Big Ship.”

I twitch. “How can I get to Big Ship?”

“You can’t.”

“What can I do?”

“Read the diary.”

I do not understand how reading helps Ship or me. “What else can I do?”

Ship says, “You can wait.”

Ship has many books, almost more than my fingers and toes. Only one was what Father called the Book. The word on its cover, a word that, with care—and Ship’s help—I now sound out, is Diary.

It is fatter than any other book, because, in a way, it is many books. At the back, the newest pages are rough to the touch and ragged on the edges. They go to pieces if not handled with care. These pages are made of wood pulp, just as Mother taught me. Maybe I did make some of these pages. The letters on these newest pages are large and messy, written with charcoal in Father’s hand.

The pages in the middle of the Book are also on rough paper. These pages are dark with age and hard to read. The lines and curves of the letters are very thin. Surprised anyone could make charcoal marks so small, I had asked Father about it.

“These pages were marked with a pen,” Father said. “When my father’s father was a boy, the last pen stopped writing.”

“What is a pen?” I asked.

He showed me. “A tool, like a charcoal stick.”

In my hand that day, the pen felt like a charcoal stick. It scratched paper like a charcoal stick. But it did not leave any mark.

The front of the Book is oldest. Its pages are smooth and straight and strong. They have not darkened at all. The letters on these pages are tiny and perfect. “Ship says it wrote these letters,” Father said. “With a tool called Printer.”

Printer no longer worked, either. It needed more of another tool, called Toner. Toner was like charcoal and also like the driest dust. I do not understand Toner.

I open the Book to its front, sounding out the words of Amanda, the Mother of my line.

Humans are not native to this world I named Paradise. Okay, that turned out to be a stupid choice. I keep the name, if only as a lesson in humility. Anyway, it’s not as if anyone else is using the name—or any other name, for that matter. As far as I can tell, those who came ahead of me don’t have a name for the place. I should never have come to this world, and neither should they.

Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing?

Again and again, I must hunt in Dictionary for a word. Dictionary: that book is almost as fat as Diary, and its name is harder still for me to say. Mother called Dictionary the Book of Words. I understand that name but not many of the words inside.

Ship tries to help me, but the more I read, the less I understand. I turn to a newer part. It begins: To my son. I understand little more here than in the front pages. I turn further into the book. The next part also begins: To my son. I still do not understand much. The next parts begin: To my daughter and To my children. I do not know what a children is.

In each newer part there are fewer words to know, and I know more of the words I do find. But it is not enough to know words. I need to know the meaning. To be ready. To help Ship. And so, slowly, in the newest pages, the pages I think Father wrote, I sound out:

To my son.

In the beginning was Earth. The people came from Earth...

Save enough food for winter, and I live. Save too little, and I die. When I am idle or when I sleep, I eat less. I understand winter.

But Ship is filled with food Father saved before he was sick. If his food is not enough, if spring comes late, I can eat from what I hid before coming. There is no need for me to be idle. And so, every day, I read. Then, by Ship’s light, I read more, late into the night. Reading and thinking do not help my winter headache.

Slowly, I learn...

People should not be on Paradise, Father wrote. So, my father told me. So, his father told him. Then how can life be so good here? My father had no answer.

I ask Ship.

“Read the Book,” it says.

Father said I was to help Ship. Instead, it helps me. It explains, or at least it tries, the words I did not know. It answers, or at least it tries, my questions. And it does some things for me when told, like making its rooms lighter or darker.

But Ship only (and this is a new word I learned) reacts. Ship does things when asked or told. It talks smart, but in a way, even a mouse is smarter. Even six-leg Paradise mice. They do things without being told.

I keep reading. Someday I hope to understand why, and how, I must help Ship.

Every day, when I can read no more, I go outside Ship for snow to melt or for fresh air. Some days, I see (and this is one of my new words) my neighbor. When the wind comes the right way, I smell her. From afar, that is all right. When spring comes, it will be better.

But not because I promised Father I would teach a child. I still do not know what a “helium” is, or where to find three of it, only that Ship needs this. I only know that without helium, like me without food, Ship will die.

“When will you be gone?” I ask. Ship answers, but its words mean nothing to me. What are seconds? I try again. “How many years?”

“In midsummer,” Ship says.

If I mate with my neighbor today, no child of ours will ever help Ship. Am I happy or sad about that? I do not know.

“Can I help?”

“Only if you can bring me helium-3,” Ship says.

Now I know I am sad. I go back to reading.

The Firsters made a deal with the devil.

I have learned enough to understand a little. Firsters are people. They came from Earth to Paradise, carried by Big Ship. Big Ship looks small because it is far away. It was too big to come down to the land. (And not streamlined. “The wrong shape,” Ship explains that word, in the voice that means I have not been told everything. After many questions, I learn only that I know too little for Ship to explain more.) Other, smaller ships, maybe like Ship, carried the Firsters down to the land, but Ship does not know about the others. It is all very confusing.

Deal is easier. Sometimes I trade things with other people, like some of my fruit for some of their grain. A deal is a trade.

But the devil? I do not understand at all when Ship tries to explain that. I go ahead with my reading.

They gengineered (“changed,” Ship explains) themselves to metabolize (“eat”) local proteins (“food”). Paradise life uses many of the same amino acids as Earth life, but a few differ. They made the same gene hack to (“Changed in the same way”) the animals they’d brought. Mice, cats, dogs, sheep, goats, horses...

The list is long, and all four-leg animals. The six-leg animals were on Paradise when the Firsters came. When I do not understand a word, sometimes I find its picture in the Book of Words. “I do not know horses,” I tell Ship.

“I am not surprised,” it says. “I haven’t seen a horse in years. They might all be far away, somewhere with better grazing. Or maybe they are extinct.”

“Extinct?”

“Dead.”

Death, I understand. I go back to my reading.

Most of the snow is gone. The trees have buds, some even their first fronds. Where the snow has melted, the grass no longer sleeps and has become green. Mice and other little animals are finding the grass. They are not so thin as in winter. With fatter prey to hunt, the cats and dogs are not so thin, either.

The smells of new growth finally takes away the last of my winter headache. Now I have a different ache, a want, a need, to be outside. To take away plants that did not last the winter. To sow seeds. To spread the waste that I have saved. To take fallen branches from streams before melting snow floods the land.

After many more days inside Ship than I can count, just reading, this... compulsion will not be denied.

But neither will this new need to learn. After each hard day’s work on the land, I read into the night by Ship’s light.

Changing humans (“That’s you, and those like you,” Ship says. “People.”) and other Earth fauna (“The four-legged animals”) to digest Paradise proteins could have destroyed the ecosphere. The local fauna were too primitive. They could not have competed.

When I ask about more words, Ship tries to explain. Still I do not understand. I ask it say the whole thought of the page, as simple as it can. It says, “Paradise animals, the ones with six legs, would all die.”

To think about that makes me sick. Life and the land are... are... I do not know a word strong enough.

Ship hears my struggle for words. “Sacred,” Ship suggests.

That sounds good. Life and the land are sacred.

I make myself keep reading.

And so, the Firsters gengineered another change. They rewired themselves and their animals for sensitivity to eco-pheromones. Never mind how crappy their physics was—I mean, generation ships! Really?—their biotech was way beyond “modern” levels.

More talking with Ship. More searching the pages of the Book of Words. Before the... eco-pheromone change, people were not one with the land! They did not flourish with other life. They did not become sick if they let the land be sick. (And they did not have headaches all winter, while the plants slept under the snow. I try to imagine that, but I cannot.)

Trying to understand, too confused even to ask questions, I sound out another page.

Throughout the growing season, most Paradise plants pump out pheromones. When the air is rich with them, altered people (all terrestrial mammals, in fact), get an endorphin rush. When the local ecology fails to thrive, or goes dormant for the winter, everyone nearby goes into withdrawal. Some choice: a high that continues from spring until late autumn, or perpetual withdrawal. Of course all everyone here wants is to nurture the land! I feel the urge, too!

And if, for whatever reason, the ecosphere fails to thrive? Things get ugly! During drought conditions, say, the native plants switch to producing stress pheromones. At that point, testosterone levels plummet in altered males.

It gets worse! When “good” eco-pheromone levels become scarce enough, altered people emit their own pheromones. Repellants. Then adults can’t bear to be around each other.

Clearly, these changes were intended to limit population to what the ecology could support without endangering the local flora and fauna. I get that. It was a noble goal. I want to believe the Firsters simply underestimated how sensitive they would be to these gene tweaks, or (just a suspicion) that epigenetic reinforcement would increase that sensitivity over time.

Simply? I understand simple things. This is not simple, but I keep reading.

Nature, of course, doesn’t care what I believe, and even the best intentions provide no immunity to mistakes. Humans were, are, very sensitive. I’m amazed that people aren’t already extinct here. Simulations suggest it would have taken only a few generations to reduce the Firster colonists to the scattered hunter-gatherers and subsistence farmers I found.

To be fair, maybe they felt they had no choice. Their generation ship (I ask about those two words, and Ship says, “She means Big Ship”) was a wreck. It’s astonishing to me they made it here. Trying their luck elsewhere (“Leaving Paradise”) was never an option.

Leave Paradise. Leave the land. No one would do that even if they could! Would they?

I go outside to think. But when I come back to Ship, Amanda’s words are no simpler for me.

By luck or design, these eco-sensitive behaviors have hormonal triggers. Prepubescent children neither produce nor react to any of the eco-pheromones. But when puberty hits and the changes kick in? Wham! Families break up. That’s when education, using the term loosely, stops. Imagine how little time a hunter-gatherer or subsistence farmer can spare for teaching. And before they pass along anything else, they must teach the children how to survive—alone—on this accursed planet. Because, no later than age twelve or so, they send their kids away. Is it any wonder culture has all but vanished? Is it any wonder the adults speak like young children?

Once again, I stop my reading to say, “I do not understand.”

Ship tries to explain. Each time it tries with simpler words. And still I do not understand.

At last, Ship finds simple enough words. “Too many people would eat too much food. That’s bad for the land. To keep the land safe, people cannot have too many children. To have fewer children, sometimes men and women must stay apart. Even young men and women.”

Like winter has returned, my head is pounding. “Is that wrong?”

For a long time, Ship is quiet. I think it has no answer. Then it says, “The father of your line thought so. His words about this are not in the Book, but I remember them.”

I ask, “What did he say?”

“That people are meant to be social creatures, not territorial like cats. It means that people should be with other people. On Earth, people were.”

I remember going away from Ship the winter my chest began to grow hair. If I had stayed, Father or I would have hurt the other. “Be with other people. Like Father and me being here? And the two of us with Mother, if she had lived?”

“Many more,” Ship says. “There were hundreds of people on Big Ship, all together.”

“Hundreds?”

“It is a number, like all the days that make one year.”

Thinking of so many people makes me want to run and hide. I have never been with more than two people.

But a part of me, the part that has learned to enjoy learning, wonders what living with more than two people would be like. And why anyone has a number like “hundreds.” And what things so many people, working together, could do.

For the first time I wonder if, somehow, working together, people made Ship.

I come to the last page that Amanda wrote.

My son is almost twelve. I know what must happen, and I hate it. I hate it! I! Hate! It! But Paradise doesn’t give a damn whom I love or what I hate.

Jason will leave the ship. Soon. Just thinking about it reduces me to tears. Will he remember anything I’ve tried to teach him? After I’m dead, when he comes back, if he comes back, how much of this record will make any sense to him?

I think of the day, long ago, when I left Father. I think of this Jason and his mother. I do not know why, but now it is me making tears.

At last, the forest near Ship is in full bud. Fronds are everywhere. I breathe in the rich smells of the forest. When the wind is right, I breathe in the nearby woman’s scent. For days, I think, almost it is the time for us to meet. And to mate.

Today, we do meet. Dana, she calls herself. She speaks slowly and knows few words. Somehow, that bothers me. I tell myself Ship has not been teaching her through the long winter. I tell myself, maybe she and I can be together in Ship, and she can learn, too.

Then I remember Ship will soon eat its last helium.

But then the wind changes, to come at us from the sea. Quickly, the smells of forest are gone to us.

As I think about “eco-pheromones,” faster than I can shape my thoughts into words that Dana might understand, she runs away.

Firsters. After days of confusion I really think about this word. If some people came first, did more come after? I ask Ship, “Was Amanda a Firster?”

“No,” Ship says, “she came many years after them.”

Many years after? But she came hundreds of years ago. So the Firsters came...? I give up trying to understand. “Ship, I see that Amanda...” Once more, I do not have the words I need. “Amanda did not like what the Firsters did, but she stayed. Why?”

“The Firsters made tiny things called retroviruses that they put into the wind. The retroviruses change people. Before Amanda knew it, she was changed. Then, like a Firster, she was tied to the land. Like you.”

“Like me. Is that bad?” I ask.

“I do not know,” Ship said, “only that it is different.”

One night, as my eyes grow tired from reading, I say to Ship, “I want to do more to help.”

“You can’t.”

“You said to wait.”

Ship is silent for a long time. “When?”

“When I first returned.” When I barely knew enough words to talk at all. “I asked what I could do. You said, wait.”

“I did.”

Questions that had been so slow to come to me finally burst out. “Wait for what, Ship?” When will that happen? What can I do for you then?”

“Wait for me to find the cure. When? I hope soon.”

Ship’s voice never sounds happy or sad; the doubt I hear must be in my thoughts. Cure, whatever it is, must be important. I say, “You have looked for this cure for a long time.”

“Yes. Since Amanda programmed me. Told me how to look.”

To look for a thing for hundreds of years! I cannot imagine this, and yet I believe. The Book has been written over and over, by Father, and his father, and all the way back to Amanda. Many people have written in the Book. And each time, the words explain less.

I ask, “Is it important to find the cure?”

“It is my only purpose, and also yours.”

The days are now warm, sometimes even hot. I work from sunrise to sunset, tending fields and forest. The grass is tall, and soon the sheep will have their lambs. I feel alive. Wonderful. At one with the land. Does it matter this feeling goes with the words endorphin rush?

And Dana works on her land. Day by day, our work brings us nearer. I think about the mating we will do and the child I hope we will have. I think about teaching some of what Ship has taught me to Dana and to our child. I think about—

Loud noises from Ship! I call them noises, but that cannot be the right word. I have never heard something so... right, never known noises to make me happy. I run back to Ship, thinking I must search in Dictionary for a better word.

As always, Ship opens when I hold my hand on the right place. Inside, the colored lights that have always flashed and moved... do not. Now only a few spots shine, unblinking, one green light on each of the things-I-mustnot-touch. And the noises-that-are-not-noises stop!

I ask, “What are those noises you made?”

“Music,” it says. “Amanda once chose this music, this fanfare, as the herald of success.” Sometimes Ship guesses my questions before I can ask. It does not always guess right, or an swer with words I understand. “Many fathers before yours, Amanda’s mate brought me here. To be with her. To be stranded on Par adise with her. This was his music. He wrote it.”

So many words I still must learn! I try to find the most important one. “Success. Is that another word for cure?”

“Not always. Today, yes.”

I drop, heavily, onto one of Ship’s chairs. “Then the waiting is over. Then it is time for me to help. Yes?”

“Yes. And, yes.”

One spring day, when I was a boy, a terrible cloud fell from the sky and into the forest. It was a small cloud, dark and twisty, spinning faster than a man can run. It roared louder than anything I have ever heard. Tornado Ship called that cloud. Many trees died, blown down, torn apart, thrown against each other. In the blink of an eye, everything had changed. While Mother and I stayed with Ship, Father went away. He did not come back until the next spring.

This day, hearing Ship’s words, my thoughts spin faster than dust in a tornado.

I ask, “What am I to do?”

“Decide.”

When spring came, I had moved Father’s body. He rests now in the dirt, next to where he had put Mother. Beside them were more... graves. Ship said caring for the dead was one of the things that makes people different than animals. When I asked, Ship said it couldn’t explain.

I say to the graves, “Ship wants me to decide.”

The dead do not answer, but who else can I ask?

“Ship says it has the cure.”

The dead do not answer that, either.

I talk to the graves, because who am I to make this decision? I think I know less than Father, who knew less than his father. Maybe, in some unknowable before, hundreds of years ago, Amanda could have decided. It was Amanda who taught Ship how to look for the cure. How to make the cure. Who told Ship to be ready to release the new—such a strange word!—retroviruses when the wind blew strongly to the forest. To undo, in years yet to come, some of what the Firsters had done to themselves.

And it was Amanda who told Ship that, when a cure was ready, a person must decide. Because, Ship says, Amanda said, “A cure can be worse than its disease. I think the Firsters proved that.”

“I cannot decide!” I shouted at Ship.

“I can not,” Ship said. “You choose not Those aren’t the same.”

Every day, I return to the graves. I talk, but of course they do not answer. Twice, I try talking about the cure to Dana. She does not understand. And I talk with Ship. I try hard, but I cannot make it decide.

“Soon,” Ship says one day, “I will use my last helium. When that day comes, you will have decided.”

Once again, I say, “I do not understand.”

“When the helium is gone, I will be gone. I will not speak. I will not open the air lock. And I will no longer be able to let the cure go into the wind.”

And so, yet again, I return to the graves. I say, “If Ship releases the cure, I will no longer feel the land. When the land is well, it will not make me happy. When the land is not well, I will not know its pain. And, and...”

And what? Misery.

“You must come back,” Father made me promise. “You must help Ship.”

I walk along the shore, confused.

For days, my head has ached. Much of that pain comes from thinking so hard, but not all. Around Ship, forest and field and meadow have all been ignored. Dana must feel the land’s hurt, too. When I go to her, try to talk to her, she runs away.

I must decide, but how? I do not know what is right. Would Father have known? Or his father? Or his father? But maybe, hundreds of years ago, Amanda and her mate knew.

“People are meant to be social creatures, not territorial like cats.”

I speak to myself, but I am full of doubt. Once again, my words have left my mouth as a question. Ship answers, “There is a thing Amanda often said.”

“What?”

“That people are not meant to work for ferns.”

Had Amanda not felt the need to care for the land? Did her head not ache if she failed? From the Book, I know she had become like me. But also I know she was different. After changing, she still knew what she had known before.

I am so confused.

I try to imagine Amanda’s life before coming to Paradise. I try to imagine hundreds of people together on Big Ship. Together anywhere. I try to imagine what things so many people, working together, could do. I try to imagine people able to build things like Ship or to write music. I try to imagine distant Earth.

I fail in all these things. And in failing, I decide. Because I hope that, someday, a son or daughter of mine can imagine these things.

“Ship,” I say. “Release the cure.”

Edward M. Lerner is a physicist, computer scientist, and curmudgeon by training. Writing full-time since 2004, he applies all three skill sets to SF (his latest novel being the award-winning InterstellarNet: Enigma) and popular science. Ed's authorial web site is edwardmlern er.com.

Briz

Jay Werkheiser | 3672 words

The spacecraft fell toward a small, dim star. What it looked like depended on the way you viewed the electromagnetic spectrum. In the narrow band that a human would call visible light, it appeared as dark blocky modules arranged haphazardly around a bulbous core, glinting with pale reflected starlight along the leading edge. In infrared, the sixteen habitat modules glowed with a pale warmth against frigid space, while the fusion core’s radiator fins blazed white. The approaching star produced little ultraviolet, so the ship faded into the blackness of space when viewed in that band. A halo of microwave light surrounded the habitat modules in the radio spectrum, pulsating with activity.

An observer able to detect it all at once would note blackbody curves overlapping elegantly, blurred with emission spikes and absorption valleys. Its two most prominent peaks fell in the infrared—one low, broad, and diffuse, the other sharp and bright.

As the spacecraft passed through the star’s fuzzy magnetic boundary with interstellar space, its central infrared peak spiked and shifted up toward the visible range. Emission lines began to trail behind, sharp peaks up through visible, the light signature of boron. Warm, living infrared light curves studded the trail, motes of warmth in the expanding cloud. Slowly they cooled and faded to darkness.

Proximity to the ship’s prime was a rare pleasure. Briz studied her light curve, radiating far up the infrared and studded with absorption lines in a pleasing pattern. Her magnetic field washed over him enticingly, rippling with information.

Important information.

He cooled his blackbody temperature apologetically.

Her magfield hissed at a frequency indicating the ship’s fusion reactor, while her light curve intensified to show danger. Magfield modulations conveyed detailed information— explosion, hull breach, a pod of workers and much of the boron-11 fuel vented to space.

He felt his podmates’ magfields, weak with distance, oscillate in a questioning sine wave. He ignored them and modulated to Prime. “BRAKING IMPOSSIBLE. OVERSHOOT TARGET STAR.” He felt his light curve shifting down to a cool microwave peak as shock and fear overwhelmed him. He imagined the death that awaited him, his entire pod. The ship would go cold and dark, an eternal perihelion winter, sending him into an endless hibernation while the ship eroded away around him. Worse than death.

No. He was the prime-podmate, the one Prime had summoned. He switched his magfield modulation to the private frequency used by his pod. “SOLUTION?”

He paused while his podmates flooded him with data. Vectors, gravitational fields, stellar distributions. It didn’t look good. The most likely outcome was close to what he had imagined. His hearts constricted.

Ah!

“GRAVITY ASSIST, SLINGSHOT TO UNEXPLORED STAR BEYOND.” He emulated the magnetic signature of the new target star.

A distant magnetic voice buzzed the temperature of the star’s light curve. Pod Squeech. “HOT STAR. INHOSPITABLE.”

His podmates made a rude magnetic buzz. “NOT NOW,” he signaled on the private band. “DATA.”

He sifted through the data stream that they sent to him, desperate for something, anything, to help his case. If Squeech came up with a better plan to save the ship, Briz would never fill the last open spot in Prime’s mating octet.

Ah! He clicked in excited surprise, cutting off whatever it was that Squeech was about to propose. Prime’s light curve shifted up the spectrum to a warm infrared of admonition, but her magfield modulated with curiosity.

Now was his chance. “ANOMALOUS RADIO EMISSION.” He shifted his magfield up the frequency band rapidly, signaling discovery/wealth potential. “LIFE SIGNS.”

Squeech buzzed negation. “MINIMAL BORON EMISSION,” he intoned. “INHOSPITABLE.”

“SOLID PHASE. NO EMISSION.” He emitted the flat buzz indicative of mining. After a quick double check of his pod’s data stream, he added the strong spectral signatures of the other two life-elements, nitrogen and phosphorous.

He detected the first hint of modulation of Squeech’s magfield, but Prime interrupted with an intense sine wave—put up or shut up. It was all he could do to keep his light curve from rippling with laughter.

Squeech flashed the magnetic signature of a nearby triple star system, but withdrew the idea before Briz could point out even one of the many problems with it.

Prime emulated the field of the hot star. Victory! But now... if he was wrong, every pod aboard ship would die.

He had no name, at least not in any sense a human would use the word. On those rare occasions when his podmates needed to distinguish him from the others, they used a sequence of magnetic clicks that roughly described the contours of the emission peaks in his blackbody curve. Those outside his pod simply referred to him as his pod identifier, a soft magnetic buzzing sound, Briz.

Squeech emitted that soft buzz from the other side of the hatch. Briz had hoped to visit the egg chamber on his way back to his pod’s module. The soothing presence of Prime’s eggs—and the nearby chambers of the mating octet—always calmed him, and he sure needed calming. The opening in the mating octet had come at the worst possible time, with pod Squeech riding a series of successes. Now, with the disaster in the reactor, the stakes rose to an x-ray peak. Success meant almost certain entry into the octet, the chance to finally reproduce the pod, and final victory over pod Squeech. Failure was extinction for him and all of pod Briz.

Now Squeech had taken his one place of refuge from the pressure. He clicked in resignation and stepped onto the hatch’s magnetic panel, allowing it to read the crystal diffraction pattern of his feet. The door popped open, and wisps of ammonia spectra condensed in the air as the pressure equalized.

Squeech’s blackbody curve dominated the module, his absorption bands partitioning his light peak in a way Briz knew females found enticing. Workers, their sharp light curves intensely peaking in the infrared, swarmed around the dim, diffuse eggs. A few of the eggs already hummed with the first magnetic signs of life inside. Longing squeezed Briz’s hearts.

Squeech’s light curve shifted arrogantly. Magnetic squeech. The warbling mating buzz. Future tense.

“PRESUMPTUOUS,” Briz modulated. “MATING OCTET. SQUEECH.” He made the short buzz of negation.

Squeech darkened his light curve like death, accompanied by the magnetic tone indicating the entire ship. “YOUR FAULT.”

Briz sealed the hatch behind him to prevent the egg-nurturing phosphine gas from escaping and approached the hatch leading to his pod’s module. He tried to make his blackbody curve shine with confidence as he left Squeech behind, but it wavered.

The hatch closed, mercifully blocking the rippling laugh of Squeech’s light curve. Briz’s podmates broadened their blackbody curves peacefully. The podmate with a sharp emission peak in his blackbody curve, his magfield intense with proximity, intensified his light curve, mocking an intimidating gesture, while emitting a magnetic Squeech followed by the sharp buzz of negation.

Briz agreed; he shouldn’t let those null-emitters from Squeech intimidate him. As primepodmate, he needed to project strength. He crackled affirmation but flashed a mocking emulation of Squeech’s handsome light curve. “COMPETITION DIFFICULT.”

A podmate, the one with the diffuse blackbody curve, modulated the signal representing Prime’s ovipositor and shifted his blackbody curve up to a warm infrared. The pod broke into rippling laughter.

Prime’s magfield intensified to engulf the entire ship, cutting off their laughter. She modulated her field in the hibernation tone. Future tense. Times four.

“HIBERNATION?” Sharp podmate modulated. “ALREADY?”

Briz indicated the distance to the target star, followed by the ship’s current velocity. Easy enough to calculate the eights of season cycles the trip would take.

Aphelion carried the homeworld far enough from the sun that atmospheric gases froze, so winter hibernation was a survival strategy common to all life. Aboard ship, it was easy to adjust temperatures low enough to trigger the hibernation reflex, tricking the body into preserving itself for trips lasting many eights of season cycles.

The podmate with a bumpy light curve flashed the magnetic signature of the ship’s original target star. “LIFE COMPATIBLE. PRIME’S EGGS.” A crackling affirmation. Then, the magnetic signature of Briz’s new target star. “HOT STAR.” Buzzing negation.

Diffuse joined in. “SHIP.” Intense light curve. “BRIZ MATING.” Negation.

Briz cut them off with a flare of hot anger in his blackbody curve. “ONLY CHANCE.”

Several podmates modulated their magfields in a waveform rising and falling in intensity, a sign of concern.

If his own podmates didn’t believe in him, perhaps all was lost. He needed some distance from their negativity. He signaled his intention to check on the navigation fields and left like a magnetic storm, his carapace glowing intensely hot.

Briz moved among the pulsing magnetic fields of the fusion reactor, getting a feel for how they shifted in response to the recent damage. The thrumming waves of magnetic flux rippling over him was soothing. He found himself relaxing in spite of the imminent danger.

There was no gravitational vector this close to the reactor. His legs instinctively clutched his carapace, shifting his blackbody curve up to a mellow warmth. The sharp blackbody curves of workers darted about, following the magfields of support lines, keeping the reactor functioning as best they could.

The hull here was transparent to most of the light spectrum, allowing him a slightly distorted view of the Universe outside. He oriented himself toward the hot star, his chosen destination, and spread his antennae wide to focus on long wavelengths. The radio spectrum peaked oddly, in a way no other sun’s did. Detectors far more sensitive than his antennae told him that the anomalous radio waves came from one of the star’s planets. It had to be life.

But what sort of life could thrive so close to such a hot sun? Water would likely be an atmospheric gas, or perhaps a liquid, corrosive and toxic. His magfield hissed in frustration. A small pod of nearby workers started at his outburst, their blackbody curves cooling as they scurried away.

Sharp’s distant magfield interfaced with his, interrupting his seclusion. “PRIME. SQUEECH.” Warbling waveform of concern.

What was that null-emitting Squeech up to now? Briz attuned his magfield to Prime’s frequency and listened in. It took him only a moment to realize what the podless field-damper was up to, then his blackbody curve burned intensely hot. Squeech was trying to convince Prime to let his pod take over navigation. Briz had successfully selected the target star, his argument went, but pod Squeech had much better navigators.

Briz interrupted with a magnetic blast. “SQUEECH. HOT STAR. NEGATION.”

Prime emitted a sine wave.

Briz quickly switched to his pod’s channel. “DATA.” While their data streamed in, he desperately ran through the reactor’s field. If Prime granted pod Squeech the right to navigate to the hot star, they could claim Briz’s discovery for themselves.

Sharp’s magfield squealed in delight.

“EXPLAIN.”

Sharp replicated magnetic data stored in pod Squeech’s private navigation banks.

Briz sent out a sine wave. How did you get this?

“SKILLFUL.”

Briz’s light curve rippled with laughter. “SQUEECH. TRIPLE STAR.” He modulated the obses sion pattern.

Bumpy’s magfield oscillated questioningly.

Briz highlighted the segments of the naviga tion program that would swing the ship in a gravity assist leading them directly to the triple star system. “FIELD DAMPER,” he cursed.

“PRIME. WAITING,” Sharp modulated.

Indeed. Briz reconnected with her magfield and sent the navigation data.

“SQUEECH. EXPLAIN.” Briz was not in Prime’s proximity so he couldn’t detect her blackbody curve, but he could imagine it heating and intensifying. He almost pitied Squeech.

Squeech flashed the magnetic signature of the dimmest star in the triplet, followed by the magnetic field lines of the homeworld’s sun. “SIMILAR. BETTER CHOICE.” He emulated the faint magnetic hiss of Prime’s eggs.

Prime buzzed negation.

“BETTER CHOICE.”

“TOO MUCH TIME.” She indicated the fusion reactor with a hiss, then quickly damped it out. Future tense. Times one.

That was as long as they had, then hibernation whether they were ready or not. Briz switched to his pod’s frequency. “TIME TO SLINGSHOT BURN?”

Future tense. Times one.

Briz’s magfield warbled in concern. “ENOUGHTIME?”

Sharp clicked, unsure. “HOPE.”

On the open magnetic frequency, Prime modulated, “NAVIGATION. HOT STAR.”

“BRIZ?”

Crackle of affirmation.

Briz attuned his magfield with that of the fusion reactor, and his podmates followed suit. He felt the reactor’s magnetic fields, still powerful even in their damaged state, constricting and channeling interstellar hydrogen. Other podmates opened a data stream to his magfield, filling him in on the containment field around the small amount of boron-11 that remained, the magnetic environment of the rapidly approaching star, the tenuous background field of the galactic arm, spectral data, and a dozen other details.

“FIRST THRUST APPROACHING.” He rotated the ship’s axis to point the fusion thrust in the right direction. He could feel the magfields of the galactic arm shift around him, as though he had become the ship, with his podmates his sensors.

Diffuse flashed an emulation of the boron spectrum accompanied by a magnetic sine wave.

Briz had no time to reply, and no idea if there really was enough boron left to do the job. No sense second-guessing now. The time came. He constricted the fusion field and flashed a blueshifted boron spectrum—release the boron!

Nothing happened.

A chill ran through his carapace. He modu lated a sine wave.

“UNKNOWN.”

His carapace felt like it was burning hot, yet his blackbody curve hadn’t shifted. He scanned the magnetic environment desperately, seeking a malfunction. What was that? A hint of an anomalous magfield, but nowhere near the reactor. It was nearby, like it came from one of the modules....

Ah!

“SQUEECH.” His light curve brightened, but he knew Squeech couldn’t see the threat so he intensified his magfield angrily.

Squeech’s magfield modulated. “BRIZ FAILURE.”

Briz damped his magfield, signifying destruction, followed by a questioning sine wave.

Squeech flashed the magnetic signature of the triple star, then the mating buzz. “SQUEECH VICTORY.”

Squeech’s plan suddenly became clear. Orbital mechanics imposed strict timelines; the thrust for the slingshot maneuver to Briz’s star had to occur before the maneuver to reach Squeech’s triple star. So if the ship missed the window for Briz’s maneuver...

Briz tuned his magfield to his pod’s private frequency. “SOLUTION.”

“PROBLEM,” Sharp replied.

Only then did Briz notice the blackbody environment. The air’s blackbody curve had dropped to a low peak near the microwave region. Already the ammonia spectrum was gone, the gas frozen out of the rapidly chilling air.

Briz tried to intensify his light curve in anger, but his hibernation instincts had started to kick in, preventing him from wasting the heat. He hissed his magfield in frustration. “TOO SOON.”

Sharp flashed the magnetic signature of a thrusting reactor. “TRYING.”

Diffuse modulated, “BORON-11 CONTAINMENT.” He emitted an intense magnetic snap— sabotage.

Sharp redshifted his light curve and emulated the boron-11 containment magfield. Going to check it out.

Briz crackled affirmation, then turned his attention to Squeech’s magnetic band. “NO TIME.” Sharp snap, buzz of negation. Fix it!

“SOLUTION,” Squeech modulated. “BRIZ.” He damped his field and emulated hibernation. “LIFE SUPPORT POWER.” Blueshift. “SQUEECH.”

“NEGATION.”

Bumpy and Diffuse modulated a questioning sine wave.

Briz explained Squeech’s demand—that pod Briz transfer their remaining life support to Squeech’s module. Pod Briz would die, but Squeech would save the ship.

“PODLESS NULL EMITTER,” Diffuse cursed. The rest of the pod warbled their magfields in concern, their light curves already darkening. Briz saw the crystal diffraction patterns of complex ammonium borohydride salts. The remaining life-gases were freezing out of the atmosphere. Soon the entire pod would succumb to hibernation, and the ship would be lost.

Transferring the last of their life support to Squeech was the only way to save Prime. Briz’s mind had become dull; the only modulation he could manage was a soft clicking of resignation. He matched his magfield with the life support control. Nothing left but to—

“NEGATION.”

“SHARP?”

“BORON-11.” A magnetic squeal of success.

“DIFFUSE!” Briz modulated at high intensity. Boron-11 spectrum. Blueshift!

Briz coupled with the reactor’s magfield. He felt the flow of hydrogen through the constricting field, felt the bump of boron-11 entering the mix. Thrust, now!

Inertia tugged him like a gravitational vector. His legs, sluggish with hibernation enzymes, grasped at the deck. But he was already tumbling. His podmates’ magfields shifted position wildly. He fought through his fuzzy reflexes, maintaining focus on pinching the burning proton-boron mixture in the reactor. The boron-11 stream thinned rapidly.

“DIFFUSE?”

Diffuse flashed the boron spectrum while diminishing his magfield toward extinction.

Briz immersed himself in the magnetic data stream from his pod. The field lines of the galactic arm rotated around him, stellar spectra shifting across the cosmic microwave background. He wanted to save a little boron-11 for maneuvering at the target star.

A little longer... boron-11 was down to a trickle now... just a bit more... and the target star’s spectrum fell into position. “BORON11. NEGATION.”

The flow cut off abruptly. The reactor cooled, it’s intense blackbody curve slowly drifting down the spectrum. “SUCCESS.”

His magnetic squeal was answered by only two others. He switched his attention to the module surrounding him. Frozen atmospheric gases glittered, their crystal lattices diffracting X-rays in beautiful patterns. A solid rind of lifegiving phosphine coated his podmates, producing wild diffraction patterns. Almost all of them were in deep hibernation, their blackbody curves cold and dark, their magfields silent. Bumpy and Diffuse remained awake, barely.

But where was Sharp? He remembered him leaving, to release the boron-11. “SHARP?” He had been in proximity to the reactor when it had fired. “SHARP!”

There was no reply for a long time, then finally a weak modulation on the pod channel. “SUCCESS.”

“HEALTH?”

Sharp modulated that he was fine, but his magfield modulations were sluggish and blurry.

Briz warbled his magfield in concern.

Sharp emulated the reactor’s magfield, followed by the hiss indicating it’s hot blackbody glow. “INTENSE. DISORIENTING.” He paused, then again modulated, “HEALTHY.” Future tense.

“SQUEECH.” Briz wanted to intensify his magfield in anger, but hibernation enzymes made him too weak. “PRIME. SQUEECH. NEGATION.”

“PRIME. HIBERNATION.” Sine wave.

He was right, Briz realized. Prime had more mass, greater energy needs, and so had probably entered hibernation early. She may never know what Squeech had done. He hissed in angry frustration.

“ANGER. NEGATION.” Sharp shifted his magfield up the frequency band, indicating exciting new discoveries, then flashed the magnetic signature of Briz’s star.

Briz crackled half-hearted affirmation.

“BRIZ,” Sharp modulated, followed by the warbling mating buzz. “FINALLY.”

Briz tried to ripple laughter across his light curve, but he was too close to cold hibernation. Sharp was too far away to see it anyway.

“HIBERNATE,” Sharp modulated. He followed it with the magnetic field shift of discovery. Future tense. Times many eights.

Briz tried to hold onto his anger at what Squeech had done, but the emotion slipped the tenuous grasp of his numb mind. In his last waking moments, the light curve of the hot star beckoned him, its anomalous radio spectrum a tantalizing hint at the strange life that waited there. Then he gave in to the embrace of the ice crystals, wondering what he would awake to.

Jay Werkheiser teaches chemistry and physics to high school students, where he often finds inspiration for stories in classroom discussions. Not surprisingly, his stories often deal with alien biochemistry, weird physics, and their effects on the people who interact with them. You can follow him on twitter @JayWerkheiser or read his (much neglected) blog at http://jaywerkheiser.blogspot.com/.

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Split Signal

Joel Richards | 6953 words

Dorsey Parr had seen her share of lawyers and their offices. An office made its statement fast and first, before its owner spoke his first word. There was a kind of shorthand here—sometimes calculated, sometimes not—for those who could read it.

Dorsey walked toward the desk and the man behind it and looked beyond him to the walls. They bore several framed prints and pencil sketches of subjects in motion: boats, runners, racing cars. All line, no color, as if that would distract. The only color lay in some photos of a lean, hard athlete in running or cycling gear. The man behind the desk.

She looked closely and found a law school diploma, secondarily displayed in no prominent place.

Phillip Trane rose to greet Dorsey. His desk was a small one and virtually bare. A cordovan leather briefcase, now somewhat scratched, took up a good share of its surface area. There were no papers on the desk, neither folders nor letters. Either his files were stored electronically or Trane was a lawyer of a different stripe: the kind who provided the conceptual impetus of his firm and not the detail. The implementer; the trial lawyer, perhaps. The kind who did his thinking on his feet, on the run. Or on the bike.

“Thanks for coming, Ms. Parr,” Trane said. His eyes met hers appraisingly. Dorsey looked back. “You come highly recommended.”

Dorsey shook hands and took the seat offered her across from Trane. Trane sat down and leaned back in his chair, his knee braced against the side of the desk.

“This meeting is informal and unrecorded,” Trane continued. “Truly and literally off the record. In fact it may not be happening, at least not in a law office.”

Dorsey had not yet said a word. She raised a single eyebrow in response, and Trane went on. “The fact is that we will be discussing a situation that the law does not address. Yet. It will some day, perhaps as a result of the action my client contemplates. And we do have a situation that calls for action.”

Dorsey looked at Trane. He seemed disinclined to say more before ascertaining that she had a voice and a brain.

“I’m an investigator, Mr. Trane,” Dorsey said. “If I come recommended to you, I’m sure it’s in that capacity. But your words seem to tell me that your investigation is complete. You’re ready for action, and perhaps not lawful action. And I gather that you expect me to take it or take part in it. But I’m not an enforcer. So why me?”

“There’s still some digging to be done, and we hear that you are an observant and shrewd investigator.”

“So you’re hiring me for my eyes and my brains.”

Trane looked at her penetratingly. Dorsey could feel his eyes calibrating her face, truly taking its measure. The lawyer’s gaze shifted and took its time working down her body. This wasn’t a sexist singles’ bar appraisal. This was professional. Dorsey had the feeling that Trane’s personal tastes were not the standard being applied. Any personal appreciation would be an aside and would be for tightness and muscle tone more than curves.

Dorsey Parr had no false modesty about her looks. She had paid enough to get them: her oval and olive face, its cheekbones augmented to prominence, the sculpted jaw and precision aligned teeth. The frame of glossy black hair whose luster and ebon were intensified a couple of magnitudes. The breast implants that somehow took nothing from the sinuous yet firm body that was her personal trainer’s masterpiece.

Her first large fee had gone to the biosculptor, to improve further on the first class natural product that had gotten her that seed capital. She had always had the brains, but so did many others.

Dorsey had neither illusions nor delusions about the permanency of her looks nor of their universal appeal. Clearly, some men of differing or zero sexual tastes would be impervious to this approach. Even they, however, could be swayed by its power over others. Or distracted and misdirected. Similarly, women could appreciate and be intimidated, if not attracted.

“Okay,” Dorsey said. “I’m observant and I’m shrewd, and I’m the stuff of certain male fantasies. But what do you want done?”

“We want you to free a prisoner. Or at least locate him and tell us how to access him.”

“Access him?”

“I think that’s the word. Download him. That’s another.”

“Those are words, all right. Buzz words, and you don’t seem the kind of lawyer to go in for legalese.” Dorsey paused. “But it’s not legalese. It’s computerese.”

“That’s right, Ms. Parr. What we have here— what we think we have here—is the kidnapping and computer warehousing of a persona, or something even more exotic: a persona clone.”

“Whose clone?”

“My client’s. That client is Mr. Parnell Beard the novelist, and his wife. Also, and in a sepa rate capacity, the corporation that is owned by Mrs. Beard and that conducts the financial af fairs of Mr. Beard.”

“If I remember rightly,” Dorsey said slowly, “your client is a best selling novelist, one quite often in the news, a Nobel laureate, and... your client is dead.”

“He is certainly dead corporeally. Legally, too—and so, as yet, prospective legislation aside, he has no legal standing. But Mr. Beard is alive—or so think myself, a small but growing body of legislators, Mrs. Beard... and Parnell Beard himself.”

Trane looked at Dorsey, and his manner was not lawyerly but downright mischievous. He stood up and hefted his briefcase.

“Let’s meet him, and you can judge for yourself.”

Motion was what seemingly turned Trane on. Preferably his own. He seemed on the point of jumping out of the cab at any hitch in traffic on the trip crosstown. It was the impatience of a man who knew he could do it faster on his own.

“I love San Francisco, and I love these hills,” he said. “But this cab’s too slow. I try to schedule my appointments with Beard for the end of the day. It’s a great run and a great view.”

“He doesn’t stand on formality, then.”

“Nah. One thing about holographic projec tions—they can see and hear through audio/vi sual pickups and relays, but they can’t yet smel sweat. Not that Beard would care.”

“How about Mrs. Beard?”

“I think it turns her on. She’s a pretty uninhibited woman, and much younger than Beard. Luckily she’s got her own young stud of the moment. Beard doesn’t care about that either, by the way.”

“But you keep your distance.”

“Absolutely.” Trane shook his head. “It’s my curse to work with beautiful women and not to touch. And I never do while there’s business pending.”

Dorsey turned to look out the window and smiled.

The cab inched ahead a length or two and stopped. Double parking seemed to be the rule in Chinatown. No wonder the stores and stalls seemed overstocked to the bursting point. The loading and unloading of produce, herbs, whole animals, and partial animals never stopped. Dorsey stared into an open air butcher shop. Smoked ducks hung on hooks in plain view, their brown skin flaky and crisp. Earnest butchers hacked away on massive wood blocks. Heads and necks flew.

“Why are we going to Beard’s condo?” she asked. “Can’t his holoprojection be fed in to your office?”

“Sure. But the Beards prefer it this way. So do I. It may happen that you and Beard get together on a course of action that might technically violate the law. None of us want that happening in my office. I don’t want a part of planning or counseling such things, and not through squeamishness or cowardice. It’s because I may have to defend those actions in court, and I can’t be a party to them before the fact. So I plan to excuse myself after the introductions.”

Dorsey hitched herself away from Trane. “I haven’t agreed to any unlawful acts. I’m not planning to.”

Trane gripped Dorsey’s elbow and pushed it back, forcing her to turn and face him head on. “I’m not asking you to. But hear Beard out. He’s caught in a bind where there’s a legitimate question of conflicting morality and existing law. This instance may be the catalyst for reconciling that dichotomy. Congress is holding hearings on this issue now.”

“Then what’s the hurry?”

“If your twin brother was being imprisoned and perhaps tortured, would you wait for legislators to—maybe—pass laws to forbid it? And how long would you wait?”

Dorsey had no answer.

“Public law and private morality. What ought the good and just man do when they conflict?” Trane shook his head. “There’s been that conflict going back to Socrates. If you decide to come down on the side of Beard’s morality, and act on it, you’ll be in distinguished company.”

The Beard condo overlooked the bay. No other building took a bite of that view, not even a small jigsaw piece of it. That form of exclusivity didn’t come cheap.

“I have Phillip’s sherry prechilled,” Caterina Beard said. “That’s all he’ll drink, and he’ll drink only one. You can have more and stronger, if you like.”

“I’d like a sherry,” Dorsey said. “If it’s a dry one.”

Trane looked pained. “It’s a fino. Do I look the type who’d drink cream sherry before dinner?”

“Lean and fine, that’s our Phillip,” Caterina Beard said with an ambiguous smile that could have been proprietary. Perhaps only wishfully proprietary. Perhaps predatory.

The late afternoon sun slanted in from the Golden Gate and fractured prismatically on the crystal decanter and chilled glasses. Sailboats and windsurfers tacked and reached, triangles and oblongs in a maritime geometry. The essence of Spain, the redolence of solera, rolled across Dorsey’s tongue and down her throat.

“Parnell’s waiting,” Mrs. Beard said. “I think he’d like to catch the view before the sun goes down.”

“Then time for me to leave,” Trane said. “I’ll get into my running shoes.”

“That’s what’s in that power briefcase?” Dorsey asked.

“Shorts, too.” Trane smiled and disappeared into the bathroom.

Parnell Beard’s holoprojection was not that of the novelist in his later years. He showed up as a wiry and intense man in his late thirties, exuding a crackling force that owed nothing to the holofield that made up his current reality. Black haired and sharp featured, free of jowl and wrinkle, he looked more real than many an urbanite of flesh and blood.

“Glad you could come, Ms. Parr,” he said. “I see Phillip’s got you on his sherry.”

“I’ve met Phillip Trane just today. I’ve liked sherry a lot longer.”

Beard nodded and his gaze walked past her, to the setting sun and the bridge and the hills.

“Damn, but I never tire of that view! These computer worlds are great, but I wouldn’t want to live without the outside pickups.” Beard’s gaze shifted back to Dorsey. “But my brother, my alter ego, my twin self has to! Damn! Can’t get it out of my head, even for a moment, when I see a sight like this. So let’s keep the small talk for other, happier times. Tell me, Ms. Parr—do you know much about Ultima Corp. and the REDUX matrix?”

“Some,” Dorsey said. “Refresh me.”

“Ultima Corp. runs the REDUX matrix. The matrix is an offworld supercomputer, and the project was set up to house the personas— some might say the souls—of people about to die. Download from our cerebral cortex, up load to REDUX. The computer is in geosyn chronous orbit, automated and self repairing within limits, solar powered, and pretty much impervious to decay and what goes on Earth side. You buy in by purchasing shares. Another way to think about it is as buying a coop apart ment or a condominium, and that’s a better analog—except that your condo is you and has no fixed place. You float in the matrix of the computer. We’re not talking programs here. The programs are the matrix, the milieu, the worlds in which we live. There are lots of them. They’re complex; they’re interactive with us; they’re evolving; they’re linked to other ‘worlds’ in other computers. You can even de sign your own.

“Now as to the essence of who or what we are and how we got here: I’m talking about using microfiber electrodes to stimulate the memory centers of the brain in the temporal lobes, stimulating the cerebral cognitive centers, translating these impulses into electrochemical quanta, and leading the essence of a person out of the brain through other electrodes as the brain is shutting down or being shut down. And it’s not a template or a copy that’s been laser beamed up to the matrix. It’s me—my memories, the neuronal pattern that sets my future thoughts. I remember the bailing out and transplantation process. I’m here and I’m real.”

“You sound real to me,” Dorsey said. “But who—or what—has been kidnapped? And how? And why do you care?”

“Show her, Cat,” Beard said.

Beard’s wife had a book in hand. She passed it to Dorsey, who looked at the dust jacket. Marsten’s Run, by one Gene Naylor. A vaguely cubistic rendering of a shattered face was the main motif of the cover. Slick, stylish, and meaningless to Dorsey.

“This book is in my style,” Beard said into Dorsey’s puzzlement. “That’s okay. Successful writers breed their imitators. What’s more damning, and more frightening in its implications, is that the book is based on a throwaway idea of mine, a half completed novel of ten years ago.”

“So?”

“So... hardly anyone knows of it but me,” Beard said vehemently. “Further, Marsten is my first wife’s maiden name.”

“A roman a clef?” Dorsey posited. “Maybe someone glommed onto a copy of that old draft of yours and finished the job.”

“Bullshit! String together the first letter of each chapter.”

Dorsey opened the book and started thumbing through it. She got as far as “I’m Beard...”

“There are thirty chapters,” Beard said. “It reads, ‘I’m Beard/alive/and Naylor’s prisoner.’”

“Couldn’t it still be a hoax?” Dorsey asked. “I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate here, in case you have some friend with a macabre sense of humor. Who’s Naylor? Real person, or a pen name?”

“Eugene Naylor is a systems designer,” Caterina Beard said quietly. “He consults for several companies, Ultima Corp. among them. He was part of the team that set up the procedures for their persona uploading process and was, in fact, present and assisting in my husband’s translation. We believe that he ran a simultaneous and parallel transposition to some other computer by splitting the output, again establishing a full field and not merely a template or program of Parnell’s persona.”

“I see the problem,” Dorsey said.

“Do you?” Beard asked. “There’s no crime on the books that covers this action. Oh, perhaps we could go for plagiarism, but that’s small stuff. I’m talking kidnapping—of a sort—and slavery, because I have no doubt that a computer warehoused clone of me—something that thinks it’s me and feels like me and reacts like me—is being held by Naylor and forced to do his bidding. Probably in some dull, featureless matrix with no stimuli. Naylor wouldn’t have the means to set up a textural computer world, wouldn’t want to leave such traces, and probably considers sterility of environment part of the compulsion. Now, how would you feel, knowing that a valid version of you was being treated that way?”

“Not too thrilled about it.”

“Damn straight!” Beard said. “And I’m going to do something about it. Locate my brother, then take action.” He regarded Dorsey appraisingly. “I’d like you to be part of it.”

Dorsey looked at Beard head on. “Part of what? I can see quite a sliding scale here. Pumping this creep for information? Bedding him to get it? Snatching him? Coercion, if all else fails?”

“I’ve thought of all of the above,” Beard said. “And flinched at none.”

“That’s because you’re doing it by proxy, and you want me to do it. Well, maybe. You’ve got my heart and mind, because I agree that Naylor’s deed is monstrous. But if I do it, I’m going to charge a huge fee up front, so I don’t have to work ever again. I may not be able to, nor even live in this country.”

“I’ve thought of that also,” Beard said. He looked over at his wife. Caterina nodded. “We’ll meet any reasonable price and even a somewhat unreasonable one. What else do you need?”

“Tell me more about Naylor.”

“We’ve got a file on him. A slim one. We didn’t want to probe too openly and spook him. We figure he’s got some sort of a dead man’s switch—a logic bomb in the program that maintains the matrix of wherever Beard II is—to shut it down and destroy the evidence— which is Beard II—unless certain inputs are periodically loaded in. So we don’t dare press him. That’s why we’re hiring you.”

“I’ll read the file. Meanwhile, give me a thumbnail sketch.”

“Naylor.” Beard paused and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Computer nerd and hacker. Can’t hack it with women. A loner. No people skills. Can’t or won’t work well under others, so he consults. Through his clients he’s got access to several supercomputers. Supposedly good at engineering solutions off the embryonic concepts of others, but not considered an innovator.”

“Personal details,” Dorsey prompted. “Hobbies?”

“Chasing women unsuccessfully. Single scull rowing. As I said, a loner.”

“All loners aren’t losers,” Dorsey said. “And you know that. Anyone who rows can’t be all bad. I row. Where’d Naylor go to school?”

“University of Massachusetts: got a B.S. No advanced degree. He’s reputed to be too impatient with the academic restrictions and requirements involved, thinks he’s beyond that. He may be right.” Beard paused in his own impatience. “Is this important?”

“Useful.” Dorsey wrote briefly on the back of her business card. “My fee and my offshore bank account. Wire the first payment. That’s for checking out Naylor, and that I’ll do.” She handed the card to Caterina Beard. “I’ll get started on the first step.”

Beard looked at Dorsey and tilted his head.

“Reading the Naylor file?”

Dorsey stood up.

“Buying a sweatshirt.”

Light. Shadow. Water.

The brightness outside showed as parallelograms of light slanting in the openings to the boathouse. The geometry reminded Dorsey of the view from Beard’s San Francisco condo, but the scale was different. The water was a few feet away, not thousands.

The sun was cold. The feeling in the dark timbered recesses of the boathouse was of moisture but not mustiness, sweat but not sourness. There was nothing stale here, either of man or building. All had been put to continued use.

Dorsey had her scull upside down on a rack and was playing a cleansing stream of water on its bottom. Then the hose was out of her hand, whipping about on the deck. Dorsey tried to step on it but succeeded only in kicking it to the side. She dropped to all fours, finally grabbing it a few feet from the nozzle. She worked her way hand over hand to its end. When she looked up, it was at a surprised and wet fellow sculler.

“Whoa,” Dorsey said. “I’m awfully sorry. It was a pressure surge, I think.”

The man looked himself up and down. “Can’t expect to be on the water and not get wet. Doesn’t usually happen in the boathouse, though.”

“God, I am sorry! Do you have any dry things? Here—get your shirt off and take my sweats.”

He laughed. “It’ll never fit.”

“Hey, the baggy look’s in. It’s a men’s extra large. And I’m not a small girl.”

Given the invitation, he stared frankly. “No, you’re not.” He flushed, then focused a bit closer on the sweatshirt and its block lettering. “Hey—UMASS! You go there?”

“Had a boyfriend that did. That’s history.”

“Maybe we can bring it to present tense. I went to UMASS. So how’s for getting warm in another way—like with a hot brandy or some such?”

Dorsey smiled doubtfully, then looked at the wet splotches that pasted his shirt to his chest. She broadened the smile to a winning whiteness that said yes to who knows what. Eugene Naylor could guess, and did.

“Few results,” Dorsey reported. “But on the plus side—at least as I see it—my virginity’s still intact.”

Beard raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“I’ve never slept with a prick. Jerks, yes, but this guy’s more. He’s vicious, if he’s done what you say he has, and I think I’ve seen enough to believe it. Besides, it would have been counter productive.”

“How so?”

“He’s suspicious, and he’s paranoid, but he’s not dumb. Give him an orgasm, and he’d stop thinking with his dick and use his brains. He’d realize that my sleeping with him was too rich a payback for a soaking with a hose. He doesn’t believe that his charm and looks would get a woman of my caliber in the sack first time out, and he’s right. So we let him win me over with his glamorous accomplishments. Like his book.”

“How did you lead in to that,” Beard asked, “if he’s all that suspicious?”

“He’s got copies all around the condo. On coffee tables, in the kitchen. And I’ll bet in the bedroom. He makes you ask.”

“And then?”

“He holds out his book to you, then points to the publisher’s colophon—yes he really does— to let you know it’s one of the Big Five, not some self published or vanity deal. Then he gives you the book and signs it for you with a big flourish. He lets you know that there are more books in him, that this one is a warm up for the big blockbuster, the best seller. That if you stay with him you can tag along on the celebrity trip to come, the talk shows, the movie deal.”

Beard smiled. “Ah, this writing life, what it can do to a man! Naylor sounds more like a megalomaniac than a paranoid.”

“Oh, he’s something of both. You want paranoia? His door lock requires finger print recognition and a punch-in code of at least seven digits. He wanted to get laid, but he also made sure I didn’t see what they were. His telephone is personal access coded. There are detectors and recorders all around the place, and I’ll bet there are some I never spotted.”

“So bugging the place is out of the question.”

“Absolutely. Besides, who’s he talking to that would do us any good? He’s probably accessing Beard through a cutout. Even then, besides Naylor’s protective measures, we’re talking a condocology with its own closed security. And, of course, he has a cell phone. Good luck to hacking that. As for his landline, it’d be tough to tap it outside the apartment, and I doubt it would be worth it.”

Beard frowned. “I see. And I don’t think we’d get far trying to penetrate the ice around the supercomputers he has access to; those companies have reasons to make their security almost impenetrable. The question, then, is... what next? Trane wants to go to court, but he’s got a Catch-22 situation. We can’t get Naylor into court unless we can establish that my clone and I are legal persons. And right now, I have no such standing and can’t bring suit.”

“So where does that leave us?” Dorsey asked.

“It leaves us needing to get Naylor to fear destroying my clone and to want to get us in court, because he’ll need a court’s protection. It leaves us needing to give Phillip a lever to get media attention and to force a judge’s acceptance of me as a person. We have to find a politically ambitious judge who wants to make constitutional law, and we need to give him something on which to hang his opinion.” Beard paused. “It means snatching Naylor and scaring the piss out of him.”

The sun was riding well up from the horizon when Dorsey and Naylor pulled up the gravel drive to the beach house. Too high to suit Naylor, Dorsey guessed. Despite a certain forced enthusiasm to the idea of seashore pleasures, Naylor was all too obviously focusing on the prospect of the sun going down and the bed covers coming off.

That suited Dorsey fine. Preoccupation precluded thought.

She headed for the kitchen and started a pot going, simmering onions. Then to the sink to rinse the quahogs.

Rough timbered, windowed with double paned glass, skylighted—the house held the wind at bay but not the light of the outside. This was a snug house to be enjoyed in a Cape Cod Nor’easter or a sun-drenched August afternoon. Alone, or perhaps someday with Phillip Trane. Not with Eugene Naylor.

“Great view!” Naylor enthused from the breakfast deck. “How’d you score this place for the weekend?”

“By making and keeping friends.”

A concept seemingly alien to Naylor. He walked about the house restlessly, turning away from the light, the dunes, the sandgrass just outside. He opened doors and peered in closets and other dark spaces. Small talk wasn’t his strong point. A pretended interest in his surroundings was his kind of displacement activity, one that wouldn’t work forever. Dorsey figured she’d better help him out. Appealing to another bodily appetite seemed a good bet.

“Get in here and help with the dinner,” she called out on Naylor’s next sweep past the kitchen.

“I’m not too good at cooking,” Naylor said doubtfully.

“You can husk corn, can’t you? Come on— I’ll show you.”

“What are we having?”

“Corn chowder, steamed clams and salad. Sound good?”

“Smells good,” Naylor said. “Does it take long?”

“The chowder can simmer while we walk on the beach. The longer the better.”

“Won’t we get cold?”

“Hey—we’ve got our sweats and each other.”

This beach couldn’t be spoiled for Dorsey, even with Naylor’s arm around her. Terns wheeled, and sandpipers skimmed the tide line. Surf crashed and pounded and provided Naylor with a reason not to talk. Dorsey didn’t need any. This was her pleasure. Serious work came after.

There was a dinner to get through with Naylor. And then the work of cracking his mind. What was it like to think like Naylor? Dorsey had seen enough to type his mind as conniving, ruthlessly self-centered and weasely. There was no countervailing charm. There were damn few saving graces at all to temper the main impression. Dorsey suppressed a shudder, but Naylor caught it and mistook it. He tightened his arm protectively around her shoulders, shielding her from the cold.

The sun was an orange ball shifting into red, coloring the clouds, going down fast. They turned back toward the beach house, both in expectation of dinner and wine, excitement and release.

Naylor anticipated a night to remember. He’d get it.

Naylor had been left alone for a good long time. Or so he judged. Plenty of time to work through the drug, to assess the microcosmic aspects of his situation. Where he was in any larger sense, he didn’t know.

But narrowing it in—he was encased in some kind of restraining garment that pinned his arms to his side in a tightly elastic grip that took spandex to a cube power or beyond. His legs were similarly bound together at the ankles. And then his whole body was lashed to what appeared to be a hospital bed by a crisscrossing of canvas straps. The bed was flat but in a tilt position about thirty degrees from the horizontal.

There was no other furniture in the room. The closed-in walls were dirty white cinderblock with smears of red that could have once been mosquitoes. A single globe light hugged the ceiling like a chiton on a rock. Dead flies—escapees from the mosquito-swatting safari?—were visible through the translucent glass.

Was he being watched? Was that bitch Janey Hill watching him? Was that even her real name? She was the focus of all this, that he knew. His last recollection was of her pouring brandy into his coffee as they sat by the fire in a rapidly cooling night. The nearby bed and the promise of her warming presence in it had dulled his mind. He could see that now, and he didn’t like it.

What did that bitch want? Who was behind her, and what did they want? Something to do with the Beard thing, likely. It was the only reason anyone would snatch him. Better not to talk, though, not to volunteer anything. Better to wait.

Better than what? There was no other choice.

If he let them, dark fantasies would take over his mind. Naylor knew that. He’d had fantasies as the youngest of kids, and most of them were dark and untellable. He’d never been good at wiping his mind clean of them, even in his boyhood bed, and that looked like an achingly unattainable haven from this current vantage.

He’d better try. He stared up and started counting the holes in a single square of ceiling acoustical tile. The trick was to focus on a pattern, segregate, and try to avoid overlaps.

A fool’s errand. And who was a bigger fool than he, to get caught in that bitch’s flytrap?

Time passed.

The door opened. The bitch walked in, fol lowed by two men. One pushed and wheeled a dolly bearing a heavy piece of electronic equip ment. A holoprojector.

“Showtime?” Naylor asked in what he hoped was a chipper tone.

“Talktime,” Dorsey said briskly. Behind her, one of the technicians was jacking the projector into an outlet beyond Naylor’s field of vision.

“I’m not talking. Not till I get answers to some questions. For starters, who are you working for, and why am I here?”

“You’re not laying down the ground rules here, Naylor,” Dorsey said. “But there is a packet of information we want you to have, and fast, so that we can get on to what we want.”

In a shimmer of light, the holoprojection of an intense, thirtyish man materialized by Naylor’s bedside. His features were sharp and smacked of feral.

“Mr. Naylor,” he said and leaned over till his face nearly filled Naylor’s field of vision. “Do you know who I am?”

“Should I care?”

“I’m Parnell Beard,” the holoprojection said, and Naylor winced. “You do know me, and you should care. You know my personality, if not my looks. And you know it from your prisoner, my persona clone.”

“I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about.”

“You do indeed, and I’m not interested in bandying words with you. I’m interested in two things. Freeing my alter ego and punishing you.”

“Punishing me for what? I’ve done nothing illegal. I’ve done nothing at all to any person. You’re not even a person. You’re dead.”

Beard looked forward again. He reminded Naylor uncomfortably of a dentist about to begin root canal work.

“Ah,” said Beard softly, “I’m not a person. Not a legal person. And yet I have you in custody, shall we say, and I can give orders to persons whom I employ and whom even you will agree are real. Orders to do illegal things, perhaps, but they’ll do them nonetheless, because they don’t make such fine distinctions, at least not when they’re well paid. And the fine irony, Mr. Naylor—and you can surely appreciate it— is that, being a nonperson, I cannot myself be held legally accountable. For whatever I do to you. And I will do quite a lot.”

Naylor licked his lips again. His tongue added little wetness to them. His body moisture seemed to have pooled completely under his arms, and it was chill.

“Your clone will die,” Naylor said, his voice cracking.

“Ah, no pretenses now, eh? And that’s the trump card you’re playing. Well, we expected some kind of dead man’s switch. But I imagine that my brother is safe till after the weekend at the least, since you and Ms. Hill—I think that’s how you know her—had plans for the great outdoors.”

“I can put up with your worst for a weekend,” Naylor said.

“Can you? Have you ever tried sensory deprivation, Mr. Naylor? Not trendy now, but once quite the thing in small doses and in a friendly isolation tank. We’ll have to make do with this bed and this darkened, soundproofed room. But we’ll add to the experience with an interesting drug from that extensive pharmacopeia that my money accesses. It slows down time perception—by a factor that I’ll leave you to guess. But I can tell you that you will be unpleasantly surprised at how long a weekend can last. Think years.”

A silence ensued. Beard did nothing to break it. Perhaps a sample of that sensory deprivation soon upcoming.

The silence lengthened.

“Janey!” Naylor rasped, “Stop this madness! I’ll cooperate. I really will!”

“But I want more than cooperation, Mr. Naylor. I want to punish you, since the authorities won’t. I want to give you a taste of what you’ve given to my persona clone. An environment of comparable sterility.”

“But he’s not a real person!”

“He thinks he is,” Beard said, leaning close once again. “I know. Now let’s see what sort of person you’ll feel like after your upcoming experience. And don’t forget that I command considerable resources and have few restraints on using them. With a lifetime before you this could be just the first experience of many. Culminating in the ultimate one.”

“I’ll have my lawyer on you,” Naylor said.

“Of course you will,” Beard said. “We’re counting on it.”

Phillip Trane sat in his downtown hotel room and looked at the holographic image of a relaxed and bare Dorsey Parr. Trane was trying to wind down after the trying courtroom proceedings of the day. Instead he found himself stimulated and aroused.

“You looked pretty slick today,” Dorsey said from her deck chair. Beyond her stretched sand and Caribbean surf. But Trane wasn’t looking beyond.

“You look slick,” he said. Perspiration and sun oil spangled the light reflecting and refracting off Dorsey’s skin. “This was a mistake, doing a visual hookup.”

“You don’t like the view?”

“I like the view. You’re a provocative woman, Dorsey.”

Dorsey reached lazily for a chilled rum and tonic. “Maybe so, but if I provoke I also deliver. But then, you don’t get involved with clients or people you work with. So you said.”

“You put on your business suit, make your holographic court appearance tomorrow, and your professional role in this case becomes history. And well you know it.” Trane paused. “How’d you think it went today?”

“Pretty well. Quite a coup, making a workaday plea for injunctive relief into a media event, and convincing the judge to let Beard tell his story to the cameras. I’d say he dominated the proceedings with his charisma and his will. Naylor looked like the nasty nerd he is, and his counsel’s arguments didn’t cut it.”

Trane nodded. “All arguments and fine legal distinctions aside, did Beard come through as more than a construct? Was he a person? That’s the essence of it. In fact that’s all of it.”

“He sure as hell convinced me and everyone else who watched down here.”

“That’s good,” Trane said. “Because this is one judge who values persons—or at least their votes. That and a place in the history books. And we’re going to give him both.”

Judge Holland looked at Phillip Trane, Dorsey Parr, and the holo image of Parnell Beard. Beard was appearing as his older self, the graying Nobel laureate dressed in conservative suit and tie. Contrastingly, the man’s intensity and power crackled around him, the focus of all the cameras and audio pickups in the room.

A nice irony, Dorsey thought. Cameramen focusing on and feeding back images of... an image!

Judge Holland turned his gaze toward Eugene Naylor and his counsel, and away from Beard. Not all of the media pickups followed.

“I have two requests for injunctive relief,” Judge Holland began. “One filed by Beard, Inc., a Delaware corporation, seeking to restrain one Eugene Naylor from exploiting what it claims to be its property, a persona clone of Parnell Beard, fraudulently obtained. Beard, Inc. also asks for more—a ruling that such a persona clone is distinctly more than a program, but a legal person, and no entity’s property. If such a ruling is obtained, it asks for the awarding of this persona clone to the custody of Parnell Beard.

“Mr. Naylor stipulates that he indeed possesses a copy of the Beard persona, but maintains that, whatever the ethics of the situation, no illegality has taken place. He claims that what he has is but a program and not one produced or used for publication or commercial sale, and therefore not copyrighted. He holds that no authorization from anyone—much less a legally dead and noncorporeal Parnell Beard or his literary executor, Beard, Inc.—is required for Mr. Naylor to enjoy this program for his private use, including learning from such an interactive program to write a book.

“I also have a filing from Eugene Naylor for an order to keep agents of Beard, Inc. at a distance of one hundred yards, and further restraining Beard, Inc. from harassing and doing bodily harm to Mr. Naylor. Strictly speaking, doing bodily harm to Mr. Naylor would be a criminal action, and no order from this court ought to be necessary.

“However, we have heard from who or what purports to be Parnell Beard—who may or may not be a person—stating that he does intend to harm, perhaps kill Mr. Naylor, and that he is acting as a private individual and not through Beard, Inc. He claims to have the financial resources, offshore and beyond this court’s jurisdiction, to hire persons who will do this.”

The judge paused and turned toward Beard and the striking woman who had moved forward to stand by him. Naylor’s eyes followed. His hands clenched.

“Mr. Beard—and let the record show that I address you in that mode provisionally—do I understand that to be your position?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I have those resources, and I have taken steps toward using them.”

“Be careful, Mr. Beard,” the judge said gently. “That sounds somewhat like a threat.”

Dorsey caught Naylor’s eye and smiled sweetly.

“A threat can only be made by a person, Your Honor. By law, and to this minute, I am not one. Nonetheless, I—whatever I am—reiterate my prior statement to Mr. Naylor. If he does not immediately release my brother, I shall have Mr. Naylor killed.”

Scuffling sounds interrupted the flow of voices. Chairs scraped on hardwood floor and tables vibrated. Cameras swung on their bearings to a disheveled and wild-eyed Eugene Naylor trying to rise from his seat while his attorney struggled to restrain him. The older, thin-boned lawyer was no match for his aroused younger client.

“Your Honor! Your Honor!”

Judge Holland banged his gavel.

“Do you wish to address the court, Mr. Nay lor? Your counsel seems to advise against it.”

“Beard can have him, Your Honor! He can have whatever he wants!”

“‘Him?’” the judge asked softly.

“Him! It! Whatever! Just stop him and that bitch from killing me!”

The judge regarded Naylor benevolently. To Trane it seemed more the look of a director who had orchestrated a successful performance than that of a jurist.

“‘Him’ again? It seems, Mr. Naylor, that whatever your prior argument, you have come to accept Mr. Beard and his clone as real persons.”

Naylor glowered, started to speak, then subsided silently into his chair.

“Bear in mind that only if he is adjudged a legal person can I restrain Mr. Beard,” the judge continued inexorably. He turned away from Naylor and towards the cameras. He was back in the mode of reluctantly drafted maker of constitutional law.

“As all parties here know, Congress is currently conducting hearings on proposed legislation that will codify the status of so-called computer warehoused personae. It has not been the desire of this judge to preempt this process.”

Like hell. Trane smiled inwardly and expansively.

“Nonetheless, the gravity and immediacy of the circumstances—particularly the prospect that at least one life is at stake, perhaps more— has impelled me to hear arguments and to rule on the request before me.”

The judge took off his glasses and slowly wiped them.

“Time brings change and an expansion of the parameters of known science. The law must also expand to fill that legal vacuum which society, if not nature, abhors. Mr. Beard has presented and shown himself to be an entity or construct capable of making moral judgments, able to exercise volition, and able to influence society and its members through his actions. He has shown, most impressively, the ability to convince even his adversary of his ability to act as a person. Justice to him demands that he be considered a person. Justice and protection for society demand that he be placed under society’s constraints and be considered a person. The court rules that Mr. Beard and, provisionally, Beard II, are persons.

“The court will issue the injunctive relief sought by both parties. Mr. Naylor is ordered to release control of Beard II forthwith, or face criminal indictment for false imprisonment as well as contempt. Beard, Inc. and Mr. Beard will refrain from harassing, threatening, or doing bodily harm to Mr. Naylor.”

The judge turned to Beard. “Welcome to humanity, Mr. Beard.”

Offworld and offshore. Variations on a common theme.

Beards I and II live in the multifarious worlds of the REDUX matrix. It’s the closest thing to immortality that mankind knows. It will keep them around, they remind Dorsey and Phillip, until some better form evolves. And it will, the Beards are sure.

Dorsey and Phillip have stayed friends and sometime lovers. They visit the Beards on occasion—timeless interludes in glittering Solari arcologies, deep space vacuum habitats, tropical exotica that materially up the ante on the offshore Caribbean retreat they sometimes share. They’re comm linked to the Beards’ worlds but not really there. They’re on Terra and working off the feeds of Beard I and II and Caterina.

Caterina is more really there. She’s wired and implanted and can truck her psyche up that laser track anytime she wants, leaving nothing Earthside but an organic matrix with its autonomic functions ticking over.

She’ll eventually do the no-return transfer. The Beards urge Phillip and Dorsey to do the same, trading deteriorating organics for a quicksilver ethereality that doesn’t age. Phillip and Dorsey think about mortality more as the years roll.

Time passes. Earthside.

Joel Richards is author of the novel Pindharee (Tor), but he’s mainly a short fiction writer. His stories have appeared in Asimov's and Analog, as well as anthologies including Terry Carr's Universe series, Roger Zelazny's Wariors of Blood and Dream, and Harry Turtledove's Alternate Generals II. When Joel isn’t writing, he’s running ArchRival, a group of athletic shoe and clothing stores north of San Francisco that he founded... or running the trails on Mt. Tam. He’s running somewhat slower in recent years, but writing faster. San Francisco and the Bay Area infuse much of what he writes, including “Split Signal.”

Rendezvous with a Comet:

How ESA’s Rosetta Mission is Decoding Ancient Planetary Mysteries

Richard A. Lovett | 4927 words

In Egyptology, the Rosetta Stone was one of the greatest of all finds—a tombstone-sized slab of granite inscribed with a decree issued in 196 B.C.E. by Egyptian king Ptolemy V. Not that the decree itself was important. What mattered was that it had been written in three languages: two previously unreadable Egyptian ones... and Greek. Since ancient Greek was well understood, it was the key that eventually allowed scholars to decipher vast numbers of other ancient Egyptian inscriptions.

In space science, Rosetta is a spacecraft. Launched by the European Space Agency (ESA) in 2004, it was designed to become the first spacecraft ever to orbit a comet. It was then hoped that it would live up to its namesake by teaching us more not just about comets but about the early-Solar-System environment in which they formed.

The spacecraft completed the first stage in its mission in August 2014 when it gently braked into orbit around a comet known as 67P/Churyumov—Gerasimenko (67P/C-G)... a not inconsiderable feat because comets don’t have a lot of gravity, making it easy to overshoot. (Comet 67P/C-G’s escape velocity is about a meter per second, or 2.2 miles per hour.)

Three months later, it tried something even more daring, releasing a lander named Philae (named for the Philae Obelisk, which also contains texts in both Greek and Egyptian).

If you were watching the news, you know what happened next. The lander indeed touched down, but instead of firing a pair of “harpoons” intended to secure it to the surface, it bounced. And bounced. As Paul Weissman, a researcher at the Planetary Sciences Institute, Tucson, Arizona, 2 later joked, it didn’t just make the first-ever landing on a comet—“it landed three times.” When it finally came to rest, it wound up tilted sideways, in the shadow of a cliff where its solar panels couldn’t get power. It ran on batteries for about 2.5 days, then went silent. 3

That sounds like a disaster, but it turns out not to have been anywhere nearly as bad as it could have been. To begin with, says ESA astrophysicist Matt Taylor, measurements from the final landing site revealed the comet’s surface to be formed of harder material than expected; had the harpoons fired as intended, the recoil might have launched the lander into space so vigorously it might never have come back down. “We might have had two orbiters,” Taylor joked at a press conference in December 2014. 4

Furthermore, the ultimate landing site proved more interesting than the planned one. That’s because the same shadow that cut off sunlight for the lander’s solar panels also protected the surface from Solar heating, allowing the lander to examine material that was more pristine than would otherwise have been available. “We’re actually in a better place than we planned, for science,” Taylor said.

So, what have Rosetta... and Philae... taught us?

Pebbles and Breccias

Let’s start with Philae. One advantage of the bounce was that it gave close-up views of more than one part of the comet. At its intended landing site, it found a pebbly area, composed of bits ranging from millimeter size to about three inches—exactly the type of “safe,” flat landing zone mission designers had intended. It didn’t have time to do much else, but it did take photos during the descent.

The next time it hit, it was tumbling and didn’t return useful data. But on its third landing, beneath the cliff, it was able to send back good photos. Those images revealed the cliff to be full of embedded rocks ranging in size from four to forty centimeters (1.5 to 15 inches). On Earth, geological formations like this are called breccias and can be formed in a number of manners. What matters is that they are composed of smaller rocks welded together by the action of time and other geological processes. Because the inclusions predate the final rock formation, they can tell us about conditions that preceded their consolidation into the breccia.

The cliff is an exciting find because there are two models for the formation of the early Solar System’s primordial objects (of which comets are believed to be survivors). One is the runaway accretion model, in which protoplanets (including comets) are formed as everlarger pieces come together. Under this model, the comet would have begun with small objects coalescing into less-small ones, which would then coalesce into medium-sized ones, which would merge into even larger ones, until eventually you get a protoplanet. Under this model, for something the size of a comet, you’d expect to see structural elements on the order of tens to hundreds of meters across.

The other model, known as the pebble-accretion model, suggests that large objects are built up not of a cascade of increasingly big predecessors, but from primordial pebbles that somehow come together in big agglomerations. It’s exactly the type of process that would produce brecciated cliffs and pebblestrewn plains. “This [model] is more consistent with what we see,” says Cedric Pilorget, a planetary scientist at the University of Paris-Sud. 5

Additional support for this hypothesis came when the orbiter discovered large cliff-walled pits that appear to have been very freshly formed. How fresh is open to question, but they are recent enough that their walls offer glimpses of material that was recently part of the comet’s subsurface—material that appears to be studded with large numbers of rocks that the scientists have dubbed goosebumps. See Image 1 on the page 35.

In other words, these materials appear to be another breccia. Interestingly, the goosebumps are all about the same size: about three meters in diameter. That’s large enough that most of us would call them boulders, but to early-Solar-System modelers, they’re still pebbles... and finding whole cliffs full of them adds considerable support to the pebble-accretion model.

That makes the goosebumps one of the mission’s most exciting finds to date.

“Remember, these objects would have formed at least 4.5 billion years ago,” cometary scientist Stephen Lowry of the University of Kent, U.K., told BBC News. 6 “Where else could you see physical evidence of processes that were happening that long ago?” That said, he warned that it’s not yet proven that the goosebumps are indeed what they appear to be. “It’s very exciting, but we have to be sure that this... represents genuine cometesimals and not some feature that has somehow been produced as a result of ices simply sublimating from the comet,” he told BBC.

There is one aspect of the comet, however, that isn’t consistent with pure pebble-accretion: its overall shape.

“[It] looks like a rubber duck,” says Weissman. Specifically, it has a roundish head about 2.5 kilometers across perched on a thin neck that holds it above the main body, which measures about 4.1 kilometers long by 2.5 kilometers wide. Most likely, this shape means it started out as two comets that crashed together and merged. Not that this is a big problem for the modelers. The pebble-accretion model applies only to the formation of protoplanets, not to the formation of subsequent, larger objects, which were presumably produced by colliding protoplanets.

Meanwhile, the orbiter has mapped the rest of the comet, returning photos with resolutions as fine as 11 centimeters per pixel.

In the process, it has followed the comet for about 18 months (about one quarter of its “year”) as the comet moved inward toward the Sun.

When Rosetta reached 67P/C-G, the comet was about three astronomical units (AU) out from the Sun. 7 That’s about as far out as the asteroid Ceres... far enough out that the Sun’s light isn’t intense enough to vaporize much ice. (That far out, comet tails are very tenuous.) A year later, however, the comet was at 1.24 AU, passing through its closest approach to the Sun. That’s close enough for a 2.6-fold increase in solar heating, a potent change because the comet is dark enough to absorb a high fraction of the sunlight falling on it. “It’s like coal,” says Sonia Fornasier, a planetary scientist at LEISA-Observatoire de Paris. “Only 6.5% of light reflects.”

On a comet, such heating causes ice to sublimate (a process in which it vaporizes without ever going through the intermediate step of melting). The results were dramatic changes as the comet moved closer to the Sun. In June 2014 (while Rosetta was still approaching), the comet was losing about a cup of water per second. 8 By August 2014, that had increased to nearly four hundred cups per second, and a year later, at perihelion (closest approach to the Sun), it was one thousand. 9

One thousand cups per second might not sound like a lot, but it adds up to more than twenty thousand cubic meters per day: enough to fill eight Olympic-sized swimming pools.

That still may not sound enormous, but comets aren’t huge; careful measurements of the effect of 67P/C–G’s gravity on radio signals coming back from Rosetta indicate that its mass is only ten billion metric tonnes—the equivalent of four million Olympic-sized swimming pools of water. A back-of-the-envelope calculation shows that at that rate of water loss, the entire comet might evaporate in as few as a thousand orbits... about 6,500 years. 10 Not that this is surprising; astronomers have long known that once they reach the inner Solar System, comets are short-lived objects. Many, especially those that come closer to the Sun than 67P/C–G, have been seen to disintegrate.

Egyptian Plains

From the start, Rosetta’s cameras showed the comet to have a complex surface. “[There are] smooth terrains, fractal terrains, big depressions, rocky regions, and regolith,” Fornasier says. But as it warmed and become more active, some of these regions changed, often rapidly. See Images 2 & 3 on pages 36 & 39.

One of these is an area known as the Hapi region. (Hapi was the Egyptian god who controlled the annual flooding of the Nile; in keeping with the mission’s name, many of the comet’s features are named for ancient Egyptian gods.) When Rosetta arrived, Hapi was a smooth plain. But as temperatures rose and sublimation increased, it became pocked with flat-bottomed pits surrounded by steep rims a few meters high. “The changes [occurred] really fast,” says French planetary scientist Olivier Groussin.

Another initially smooth region, called Imhotep, also developed flat-bottomed depressions about five meters deep, which then expanded outward at a rate of a meter or two per day. In their wake, their retreating scarps left boulders that Groussin suggests are non-volatile materials left behind as the rest of the scarp vaporized. (Not surprisingly, spectroscopic data have revealed both Imhotep and Hapi to be rich in surface ice, explaining why they might be among the first regions from which water might vaporize as the comet drew nearer to the Sun.)

But that is just part of what Rosetta spotted. It also saw numerous jets of dust and gas shooting into space as the comet heated up. In months and years to come, much effort will undoubtedly go into relating these to changes in other surface features, but at the moment, the most notable observation is that they were particularly concentrated in the duck’s “neck,” possibly because the comet’s shape focuses heat on the junction between its two lobes. If so, it may not be that many years until the neck thins enough to break, and 67P/C-G splits into two smaller comets, orbiting in tandem.

In the mean time, one thing the data clearly reveals is that the jets repeated with each 12.4hour revolution of the comet, reappearing each morning as their part of the comet rotated into light, and persisting until about an hour after sunset. “We see the same jet with each rotation,” Weissman says. See Image 4 on page 40.

As the comet neared perihelion, it also began producing short-lived outbursts that erupted once, then didn’t recur.

The best explanation is that these were produced when heat penetrating from the comet’s exterior reached pockets of amorphous ice. Amorphous ice is formed by the rapid cooling of water to temperatures below about 130°K (-225°F). 12 That’s cold, but the area of the Solar System where comet 67P/C-G is believed to have formed is much colder.

Normal ice is composed of water molecules arranged in hexagonal structures. Amorphous ice is not so orderly structured (presumably because it cooled too rapidly for the molecules to line up in orderly arrays). When warmed, however, it can shift into normal, hexagonal ice. And it turns out that this process releases heat, meaning that once it starts it can feed on itself in a sort of chain reaction.

As we’ll discuss later, there is strong evidence comet 67P/C-G is a very recent visitor to the inner Solar System, which means its interior is probably still very cold. And while its surface doesn’t get hot by earthly standards (the maximum temperature measured by Rosetta was about-45°F), that’s far higher than the threshold for amorphous ice. This means there’s the potential for geyser-like jets of dust and vapor to occur whenever heat penetrates deeply enough to warm a pocket of amorphous ice past its critical threshold—exactly what appears to have been seen by Rosetta.

Pits

Earlier, we discussed the importance of the goosebumps in the comet’s goosebump-lined pits. Now, let’s look at the pits themselves.

The simplest explanation would be that they are craters formed by explosive outbursts. But they are simply too big to be accounted for in this manner. The largest pit, in fact, is a cylindrical hole two hundred meters across by two hundred meters deep. That gives it a volume of 6.2 million cubic meters, 325 times higher than the comet’s peak daily water loss. There is no way a single outburst could have created anything that size.

But that doesn’t mean the pits have nothing to do with outbursts. In a paper presented at a March 2015 planetary science conference, a team led by Jean Baptiste Vincent of the Max Plank Institute for Solar System Research, Göttingen, Germany, concluded that they are formed from the collapse of underground caverns created by the hollowing out of the subsurface by escaping jets of vaporized amorphous ice. 13

“The general conclusion is that they are sinkholes,” says Weissman.

Even the shallow, flat-bottomed features in Hapi and Imhotep may have begun this way: as smaller sinkholes that rapidly spread thanks to the easily sublimated ice. The reason for their flat bottoms is that as their rims retreated, ice and dust dropped to their floors, forming an insulating layer. Someday, most likely, a new sinkhole will appear, beginning the process anew.

Orbital Decay and Deuterium

One of the things that has long been known about comet 67P/C-G is that it a member of what are called the Jupiter Family of comets. These comets are believed to have spent billions of years sedately orbiting in the Kuiper Belt, a shadowy zone that extends from the orbit of Neptune (30 AU) to about 50 AU, until something changed their orbits and brought them under the influence of Jupiter.

Calculations working backward from its present orbit indicate that 67P/C-G is an extremely recent visitor to our part of the Solar System. Although it’s not clear when the comet first left the Kuiper Belt, these back-calculations make it clear that prior to 1840 it never came closer in than 4 AU.

At that distance, solar heating was minimal, and it was nearly as dormant as it had been in the Kuiper Belt. But then, in 1840, a close encounter with Jupiter shifted its perihelion inward to 3.0 AU. For the next 119 years, its perihelion slowly migrated inward to 2.77 AU, but then, in 1959, another close encounter with Jupiter dropped it into its present orbit. 14

This means we can count the number of times it’s come to its present perihelion: nine. That’s part of why it was an exciting target for Rosetta, because it’s not yet a dried-up husk of a comet, on the verge of extinction. Nor has there been time for its material to be heavily altered from such a limited number of passages into the inner Solar System.

This means that Rosetta can sample gases ejected from the comet with confidence that they represent the materials from which it was originally formed. “The material we see is very pristine,” says Kathrin Atlwegg of the Universität Bern, Switzerland.

When the results are compared to what astronomers have seen in interstellar regions where planets are believed to be forming, the results are reassuring: 67P/C-G appears to be composed of the same stuff, little altered through time. That has long been believed to be the case for comets, “but never been confirmed like it is here,” Weissman says.

This means that the comet can help solve one of the major mysteries of Solar System history: Where did the Earth’s water came from?

The problem is that the early Earth was hot—hot enough that whatever water it might have held at its formation must have been lost to space, boiled off into super-heated vapor by a magma ocean. It was only later that the Earth cooled enough to retain water. And that water must have come from somewhere.

One theory is that it came from comets. It turns out, however, that there are two types of comets. One, like 67P/C-G, originates in the Kuiper Belt. The other comes from the Oort Cloud, a far more distant zone on the far fringe of the Solar System, perhaps fifty thousand AU to two hundred thousand AU out, where they orbit slowly until some gravitational interaction, perhaps with a passing star, perturbs them into diving deep into the Solar System.

But now it gets complex, because current theory holds that Oort Cloud comets were formed closer to the Sun than Kuiper Belt comets (probably between the orbits of Uranus and Neptune), after which gravitational interactions with other planets or protoplanets flung them into the Oort Cloud.

Other gravitational interactions near the end of the Solar System’s formative years (well after our planet had cooled) may have again altered the orbits of many of these comets, producing what Claudia Alexander of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory calls a “rain of comets” that may well have hit the Earth. Since comets contain water, astronomers have long wondered if this is what brought the precious liquid to our then-parched planet.

To find out, Rosetta carried a mass spectrometer, which it used to measure the deuterium/hydrogen ratio in water vapor emitted by the comet, looking to see if it matched the ratio in Earth’s water.

67P/C-G wasn’t the first comet whose D/H ratio has been measured, but most of the others had been Oort Cloud comets, using Earthbound telescopes to examine the spectra of the water vapor they emitted as they plunged past the Sun. There have been nine such observations of Oort Cloud comets, and none matched Earth’s D/H ratio, pretty much ruling out Oort Cloud comets as the source of our water.

But Kuiper Belt comets formed in a different part of the Solar System, making it possible they were the reason we have water to drink and oceans to sail on.

Prior to Rosetta, two other Jovian Family comets had had their D/H ratios measured. The best data came from a comet called Hartley 2, which NASA’s Deep Impact spacecraft flew by in 2010. The other was one called 45P/H-M-P, which had been studied remotely, from Earth.

The data from Hartley 2 was a near perfect match for Earth. That for 45P/H-M-P was almost as good. If you were a betting type, you might have liked the odds for Kuiper Belt comets as the source of Earth’s water.

“It was quite interesting to see what our comet would say,” said Altwegg.

What it said was, uh-uh, try a new theory. Its D/H ratio wasn’t just different from the other two Jupiter Family comets, but wildly different: a full factor of three off from Earth’s. That doesn’t mean comet impacts couldn’t have contributed part of Earth’s water, but unless the early Solar System somehow prevented impacts by high D/H comets like 67P/C-G, while allowing impacts by low D/H ones like Hartley 2 and 45P/H-M-P, most of our water had to have come from elsewhere. (The most probable answer is asteroids, which contain less water than comets but have D/H ratios quite similar to Earth’s.)

Comets have featured in science fiction, but only in a few high-profile stories. The earliest one I know of is an 1839 tale by Edgar Allan Poe, called “The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion,” in which a passing comet somehow steals all of the nitrogen out of the Earth’s atmosphere, leaving us to burn up in a pure-oxygen environment. As 1839 science fiction goes (of which there isn’t much), it’s not all that bad. I’ve seen worse modern movies.

More recently, Gregory Benford’s and David Brin’s 1986 novel Heart of the Comet posited an attempt to divert Hailey’s Comet into an orbit where its resources could be used by humans. A few years earlier, Larry Niven’s and Jerry Pournelle’s 1977 book Lucifer’s Hammer looked at the apocalyptic effects of a comet impact on industrial Earth. But the fact is that science-fiction writers haven’t really known enough about comets to write much about them except as harbingers of doom if they hit us.

That means that for writers, Rosetta is a godsend. It shows that comets have jets, giant pits, caverns, amorphous ice, goosebumps, D/H ratios worth studying, wildly complex topographies, and escape velocities so low you could accidentally leap into orbit... and who knows what else. The Rosetta scientists have even seen windblown dust dunes on the comet’s surface, something that’s only possible if gases are spewing out at speeds up to three hundred meters per second—a staggering 670 miles per hour. On a body with an escape velocity of only 2.2 miles per hour, you would not want to be stepping at the wrong time across a fissure from which such a jet might emerge.

From a science-fictional perspective, the problem with comets is that we’ve tended to ignore them because they are little understood and potentially dangerous to visit. Now, they are better understood, but potentially even more dangerous to land on. And if that’s not an impetus to start writing comet stories, I don’t know what is.

Footnotes:

1 During its ten-year journey, Rosetta also flew by two asteroids, 21 Lutetia and 2867 Steins. Both of these drew considerable scientific attention but have been eclipsed by subsequent asteroid visits by NASA’s Dawn mission. (See Lovett, “Dawn Comes to the Asteroid Belt: What NASA’s 9-Year Mission is Learning About One of Science Fiction’s Favorite Realms” November 2016.)

2

2 Although Rosetta is primarily a European mission, Americans are also involved.

3 At the time, scientists hoped that as the comet progressed through its orbit, the shift in seasons might change the shadows enough to bring the lander back to life. But other than a few brief contacts in June and July 2015, the lander has remained silent.

4 The hard material, scientists now speculate, might be a layer of permafrost created as the comet repeatedly heats and cools during close passages to the Sun.

5 Pilorget was speaking at the annual meeting of the American Astronomical Society’s Division of Planetary Sciences, November 8–13, 2015, in National Harbor, Maryland. Many of the other scientists cited in this article also presented their research at that meeting.

6 Jonathan Amos, “Rosetta: ‘Goosebumps’ on ‘space duck’ hint at comet formation,” http://www.bbc.com/ news/science-environment-30931445, January 22, 2015.

7 One AU is the average distance from the Earth to the Sun, a useful yardstick for describing the loca tion of other Solar System bodies.

8 European Space Agency (ESA), Rosetta Blog, “Measuring Comet 67P/C-G,” http://blogs.esa.int/rosetta/ 2014/10/03/measuring-comet-67pc-g/ (updated figures as of March 29, 2016).

9 ESA, Rosetta Blog, “Cometwatch from Earth: Peak Brightness and Coma Gases,” http://blogs.esa.int/rosetta/2015/10/28/cometwatch-from-earth-peak-brightness-and-coma-gases/.

10 This calculation assumes that the comet is composed of pure ice and that water vapor is the only mate rial it is losing. Actually, the material being blown off its surface also contains substantial amounts of dust so there’s no way the comet would last a full 6,500 years if it continues losing material at this rate.

11 One photo obtained by Rosetta shows that there may already be a crack cutting partway across the neck.

12 Pressure can also play a role. 13 th

13 J-B Vincent et al, “A Glimpse Into The Underworld: Active Pits on Comet 67P,” 46 th Lunar and Planetary Science Conference (2015), abstract 2041.

14 ESA, Rosetta, “Rosetta’s Target: Comet 67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko,” http://sci.esa.int/rosetta/14615-comet-67p/

Future Missions

Recent years have been a halcyon era for space exploration. Not only is Rosetta at comet 67P/C–G, but the Dawn spacecraft recently orbited Ceres after a successful flyby of Vesta. New Horizons flew by Pluto and its giant moon Charon. Cassini has spent 12 years touring the moons of Saturn. MESSENGER spent four years at Mercury. Not one, but two rovers continue to explore Mars.

But other than Mars, all of this is coming to an end. MESSENGER ran out of propellant and closed out its mission by crashing into the surface in April 2015. Cassini will be steered into a mission-ending dive into Saturn in September 2017. Dawn can’t make it beyond the end of 2016. Rosetta will run out of maneuvering fuel at about the same time and be crashed into the comet’s surface in an attempt to get one final set of super-close-up views. New Horizons’ visit to Pluto was never intended to be anything more than a quick flyby.

Not that there’s nothing to look forward to, but it’s going to be scaled down from what we’ve become accustomed to. Here’s what’s on tap:

• Juno (current). Launched 2011, this NASA mission is already on-site at Jupiter, where it will stay until 2018. But unlike the Cassini Saturn orbiter, its focus will be on the planet itself, not its moons. In Greco-Roman mythology, the god Jupiter (Zeus) could hide himself behind a veil of clouds so that nobody could see what he was up to. Nobody, that is, except his wife, Juno. The spacecraft named in her honor will attempt to do the same thing by diving close to the giant planet on 37 highly elliptical orbits, examining it from all possible angles. Then, in early 2018, it will make a final dive, deep into Jupiter’s cloud tops, seeking the last possible bits of information before it burns up.

• OSIRIS-REx (2016–2023). Scheduled for launch in September 2016, this NASA mission is heading for the near-Earth asteroid 101955 Bennu, rated as the third most dangerous potential Earth impactor. Bennu has eight chances of hitting us between 2169 and 2199, and at five hundred meters in diameter, it’s big enough to pack a wallop, making it useful to learn what it’s made of in case we someday have to attempt to deflect it. Hence the mission’s name, which evokes the Egyptian god of the dead... in the hope it won’t be our descendants worrying about death if Bennu someday comes too close.

Once it reached Bennu in 2018, OSIRIS-REx will spend a year-and-a-half orbiting it, then approach close enough (hovering, not landing) that it can extend a robotic arm to take a sample to be brought back to Earth for analysis in 2023. It won’t be the first sample brought back from an asteroid—the Japanese Hayabusa mission did it in 2010—but at two kilograms it will, hopefully, be the largest. (Due to mechanical problems with their sampler, the Japanese were only able to bring back micrograms.)

• Hayabusa 2 (2016–2020). Scientifically, the first Hayabusa was a success, even if the samples it obtained were tiny. They were, after all, the first samples ever brought back from the surface an extraterrestrial body other than the Moon. Hayabusa 2 will attempt to expand on that success by bringing back not one but three samples from a 1,000-meter asteroid known as 162173 Ryugu. If it and OSIRIS-REx both succeed, by 2023 we will have samples from three different asteroids, invaluable for comparative analysis.

• BepiColombo (2017–2024). This joint European/Japanese mission plans to return to Mercury, arriving in 2024. It contains two orbiters that will work in tandem from different positions. At one point, the mission was planned to have a lander, but that was cancelled due to budget constraints.

• Lunar missions (2017–2018). China and India both have plans for near-future lunar missions. India hopes to land a rover; China plans a sample return (the first since Apollo) and the first-ever landing on the lunar farside.

• New Horizons finale (2019). Although Pluto was the primary target of the New Horizons mission, the spacecraft will also fly by a smaller Kuiper Belt object, 2014MU69, in early 2019. Nothing that far out in the Solar System has ever before been seen except in fuzzy telescope images.

• Pie in the sky. Dream plans for beyond 2025 are currently uncertain. A Europa mission is obviously on the list, using a Jupiter orbiter that would make repeated flybys of Europa, the way Cassini did of Titan. (This would allow the Europa spacecraft to spend most of its time well removed from Jupiter's punishing radiation belts.). Also exciting would be a return to Saturn with a combined Enceladus explorer and Titan blimp. The Enceladus explorer would make a series of close flybys of Enceladus, looking for tracers of life in gases ejected in geyser-like jets from Enceladus’s subsurface oceans. The blimp would descend to Titan’s surface, inflate, and use Titan’s atmospheric currents to direct its explorations. A third major mission prospect is a Neptune orbiter, which would explore that planet’s enigmatic moons, which haven’t been seen close-up since the Voyager 2 flyby in 1989. Uranus would also justify a revisit, but at the moment, Neptune appears to be the higher priority.

Richard A. Lovett is one of the most prolific contributors in Analog history. A former law professor, he also holds a Ph.D. in economics and a B.S. in astrophysics and coaches distance runners, including several Olympic Trials competitors. His story collection, Phantom Sense and Other Stories is available, is available from amazon.com (https://www.amazon.com/Phantom-Sense-Stories-RIchard-Lovett-ebook/dp/B0092SAOIY?ie=UTF8&btkr=1&redirect =true&ref_=dp-kindle-redirect), as is his near-future novella “Million Dollar Marathon.” (https://www.amazon.com/Million-Dollar-Marathon-Philip-Maffetone-ebook/dp/B01C348E CG?ie=UTF8&keywords=million%20dollar%20marathon&qid=1463456306&ref_=mp_s_a_ 1_1_twi_kin_2&ref_=redir_mobile_desktop&sr=1-1) He is working on a collection of science articles from Analog and Cosmos. Find him on Facebook or at www.richardalovett.com.

Throw Me a Bone

Stanley Schmidt | 1126 words

The bone that became the bane of Bill Billingsley’s existence was not the biggest ever found, nor was it a new species. He’d had hopes for both when he literally stumbled across it in the Patagonian high desert. The encounter reminded him of a documentary he’d once seen about the discovery of the enormous thighbone of the biggest Titanosaur yet found, and for one brief shining moment, he’d hoped to surpass it in size, novelty, or both. But it was not to be. After titanic effort to excavate, prepare, and identify it, it had proved to be just another Titanosaur, of a species already well known to science. It was also well below record size, though it was bigger than Bill and in life would have inspired far more shock and awe than anything now alive.

To add insult to injury, it was the only bone he found at the site. He exhausted his grant and made a serious dent in his retirement fund excavating a sizable chunk of land surrounding it. Not only did he find not a single bone that looked like a possible part of the same creature, he found no fossils at all. In the unanimous opinion of peer reviewers, those peculiar circumstances screamed “Fraud!” even though nobody denied that all the tests unequivocally proved that it was a thoroughly authentic Titanosaur bone. It just wasn’t, they said, a Titanosaur that had met a natural demise in this spot. To them, that strongly suggested that Bill had tried to perpetrate an elaborate but embarrassingly naïve hoax, somehow acquiring a fossil bone elsewhere, planting it here, and expecting them to believe it was a new find even though it had none of the corroborating fragments that should have been nearby.

Needless to say, that drove Bill’s career in paleontology into extinction—and that hurt. He knew his discovery was honest and real, and he was as perplexed as anybody that there was none of the context he would have expected. He would have been happy to spend the next twenty years trying to find out why, but nobody would even read his grant proposals anymore. And he couldn’t dip further into his retirement money; he was going to need that for retirement—though in effect, he was already far more retired than he’d ever hoped to be at his young age.

Disillusioned and embittered, he coasted for a while on savings, becoming a recluse in his own home. He tried for new jobs in academia and research labs, but they wouldn’t even let him sweep floors. Eventually, desperate for a way to keep making ends meet, he wound up bagging groceries and hoping nobody would recognize him.

He wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that nobody did.

Until one fine spring day when he kept looking out the window and wishing he were there instead of at Register 6, and a distinguished-looking man he didn’t recognize came through his lane and put a single package of buns and two cans of sardines on the belt. He rang the order up quickly, and almost dropped the bag he was filling when the man said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Billingsley. Could I have a word with you at your next break?”

“You know me?” Bill said incredulously.

“I know of you, and I’d like to offer you a job. In paleontology.”

Part of Bill was more excited than he’d been in a long time, while another part cautioned that whatever this guy was selling, it probably was as fraudulent as people had accused his work of being. Nonetheless, he agreed to talk for ten minutes at his break, which was coming up in twenty.

“My name is Cornell Jackson,” the man said as they walked out to the corner of the building where the smokers took breaks. Bill stopped a discreet distance from them and gave “Jackson” his full attention. If he really was who he claimed, he’d been one of Bill’s professional idols for a long time.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve often wanted to ask you something about your work in Wyoming...”

A couple of simple questions convinced Bill that Jackson was for real, and Bill really was honored. “But why,” he asked, “did you hunt me down here? I thought I was forever disgraced and nobody in the field wanted anything to do with me.”

“I do,” said Jackson. “I always thought your work on your Titanosaur bone was impeccable, and the fact that you didn’t find anything else near it was a genuine mystery that needed more investigation. So I went back to your site to poke around some more myself.”

Bill smiled. “Well, I appreciate that, but I would have advised you against it. That way lies professional ruin.”

Jackson returned the smile. “I realized that, but I was willing to risk it.” He winked. “Besides, I found another pretext to work there without ever mentioning your name. I wangled enough money to do a lot more digging, farther from your bone site than you got before your money ran out. And you’ll never guess what I found.”

“Nothing?”

“Au contraire.” He produced a smartphone and showed Bill a series of stunning pictures.

Bill looked at them with a deepening frown. “That looks like some sort of... village,” he said finally.

“Exactly,” said Jackson. “But look at this one.”

It was just like the one before it: a group of structures in an excavated pit that looked like some unfamiliar sort of huts or shacks. But Jackson was standing next to them, looking like a tiny action figure.

Bill felt his heart pounding as he put it together. “A settlement,” he said under his breath, “of really huge prehistoric beings? Probably reptilian?”

“Exactly,” Jackson repeated, grinning. He switched to another picture. “This is an artist’s conception of what we think they may have looked like. Cool, no?”

“Way beyond cool,” Bill agreed. “But what does it have to do with me?”

“There’s an awful lot to learn there,” said Jackson. “And I want you to help us learn about it. If anybody on Earth has a right to be in on this, you do.”

Bill frowned. “And why is that?”

“Well, look at this.” Jackson switched to one more picture, showing another huge creature, a bit smaller than the others, and decidedly different in build. “You remember that bone you found?”

Bill winced. “How could I forget?”

“Well, Bill... this is the dog that buried it.”

Stanley Schmidt was editor of Analog for a long time and seems to have trouble disconnecting (and doesn't want to). He did a lot of writing for the magazine before becoming editor and is now enjoying writing all kinds of things for it again (recently the serialized novel Night Ride and Sunrise) and reading it just for fun, as well as hiking, traveling, and playing various sorts of music. More information can be found on his website: https://sfwa.org/members/stanleyschmidt.

New Planet Landscape 38

Ken Poyner | 94 words

The latest storm is rapping

At the door, wanting

Access through the air lock:

Seeking the turbulence of our nightmares,

The chattering logic of our fears.

Storm algebra is building

To storm calculus, inferentials

And differentials keeping us

Awake all night. Each storm

Seems more focused on points

Of ingress, the weather learning

Our ways, and its own limitations.

Angry air takes measurements,

Aggressively projects pressures,

Seems to imagine

What use there is to our appendages,

How they are applied against air-lock doors.

I have warned the crew

That even a clear day is thinking about us:

hide your locomotion, repurpose

Your grasp, lie with your ways,

Admit no limitations.

Listen, as the rap becomes scratching.

UFOlogy

F.J. Bergmann | 197 words

After "All About Death" by W.D. Ehrhart

You don't want me to talk about UFOs,

but I'm going to tell you anyway. First,

you have to know that I've seen them,

or at least their traces—pale contrails

streaming across sleepless nights, lit

with an unearthly radiance, and entities

emerging from metal disks. Second,

I've felt their heaviness on my chest

in the dark, pinning me firmly, terror-

stricken, to the mattress as a warm rush

of blood muttered urgently in my ears.

Grey as smoke, they spoke in all four

of the languages I knew, with less-than-

perfect accents and limited vocabularies,

wanted me to relay messages—important

ones, if I remember correctly. Third,

this terra firma is not an only world: stars

beyond number are orbited by planets

whose existence has been confirmed,

in their turn spied upon by alien eyes,

antennae, incomprehensible organs

of perception. Fourth, even the data

they harvest is beyond understanding:

I felt them count the bones of my spine,

the whorls on my left thumb, the hairs

on the back of my neck, then perform

calculations upon whose results depend

the survival of our race. I believe "race"

is what they said; perhaps the word was

"essence of being" or maybe even "souls."

I got the impression they hadn't quite

mastered whichever language it was

they were speaking. "Survival" could

have been "always," or even "eternity."

GUEST EDITORIAL

James Gunn | 2255 words

CANONS TO THE LEFT, CANONS TO THE RIGHT

Last summer I was contacted by the editor of Leading Edge, a 35-year-old student-run magazine at Brigham Young University specializing in science fiction and fantasy, about a series it was publishing on the creation of science-fiction canons. It reminded me of a conversation I had 45 years ago in Toronto. It was 1971 and the first full meeting of the newly formed Science Fiction Research Association, and Phil Klass (an English professor at Penn State University but William Tenn to his SF readers) was standing next to me in a York Hotel late evening gathering and said, “Jim, we need to establish a canon. If we don’t, someone else will.”

The establishing of canons is a tricky business, as much for the works and authors you leave out as the ones you include. But some of us took up the challenge in the years that followed. Robert Silverberg edited the Science Fiction Hall of Fame volume of short stories from selections voted upon by the Science Fiction Writers of America, and Ben Bova followed with two volumes of novelettes. The Hugo Awards of the World Science Fiction Convention, created in 1953 in Philadelphia and made permanent at the Cleveland convention in 1955, turned its annual selections into a part of a lasting tribute. SFWA’s Nebula Awards and its annual volumes followed, then the Campbell Award, the Sturgeon Award, and others, plus a variety of best-of-the-year volumes. The National Book Award has even honored a few science fiction and fantasy works and authors. The Library of America, and other publishers, has added to the canon by including science-fiction and fantasy writers such as Lovecraft, Gary Wolfe’s compendium of 1960s works (and upcoming volume of 1970s novels), and the forthcoming volume of Le Guin.

All of these helped establish in the sciencefiction culture the belief that there were standards in its limited field that were more than reader preferences, although, to be sure, the qualifications of the various individuals or groups who made these decisions, as well as the process by which they were made, had to be evaluated for credibility. Eventually, the Science Fiction Research Association got into the business with its teaching anthologies, and other teachers, including me, put together anthologies for their classrooms that sometimes spilled into the larger community of readers. Out of this medley of inputs came a kind of consensus, mixed though it was. Charlie Brown reviewed one of the volumes of my sixvolume teaching anthology, The Road to Science Fiction, with the comment, “It pushes all my buttons.” Pushing the buttons is a kind of canonwork.

But what does one do about including novels in the canon? At the first Intensive English Institute on the Teaching of Science Fiction that I organized in 1974 as a response to the letters I received as president of the Science Fiction Writers of America, “I’ve been assigned to teach a course in science fiction. What do I teach?” one participant asked me “how many novels should a teacher have read before she feels qualified to teach a science-fiction course?” Off-hand, I said “twenty-five.” Certainly, it was not enough to provide anything close to a working familiarity with the genre, but it was a beginning. And in following years, and in the regular-semester classes I taught in the science-fiction novel, I assigned twenty-five novels. That was a staggering reading list compared to most English literature classes, but it presented an opportunity for teacher and students to cover a broad range of reading experiences and discuss others—as well as a test for student commitment to the course (enrollees had to start their preparation a month or two before the class began).

But what novels to select? That provides an additional sorting process that applies as well to the short fiction in the anthologies. As I wrote in my articles on “Teaching Science Fiction,” a science-fiction class can be focused in a variety of ways of looking at the subject matter. It can be a great book (or great story) class in which the texts are studied for their exceptional qualities and the best way in which to read and understand them. Or they can be mined for their ideas—of which the sciencefiction genre is replete (it is, after all, a literature of ideas)—in a class about issues present and future. Or they can be used to teach other disciplines, history for instance, or physics, psychology, sociology, or other physical, biological, and social sciences (science fiction is the great interdisciplinary medium, and all fields of human endeavor are part of its subject matter, including philosophy and education itself).

But I wanted to teach science fiction, that is, the genre itself, what it was, how it got to be that way, and where it might be going. To teach the canon, so to speak—those works that reside in the heart of the genre, that inform everything else, around which the rest of the genre is clustered and draw meaning, ideas, and inspiration. So my canon consisted of those texts that had contributed to the evolution of science fiction, not necessarily the great novels, though some of them were, because the great novels are often great because they are unique and unrepeatable. They may illuminate the genre because they shine so brightly from their place above the genre rather than enlightening from within. For my purposes the canon should consist of those texts that showed the way for future writers and from whose works students of the genre (including readers who want to enjoy contemporary stories and novels with greater understanding of their place in the literature and what they contribute to the great dialogue that engages the writers of science fiction) may gain a sense of the treasure house of living documents a genre provides and the protocols for how to read them.

So, what are the essential works—the canon, as I worked it out for my classes? H. G. Wells’s entire body of work, but particularly those published between 1895 and 1901, and of these his most seminal works, The Time Machine and The War of the Worlds. Modern science fiction begins with Wells, and nobody can really understand science fiction without him. Other great names preceded Wells: Poe, Hawthorne, Shelley, Verne, even Twain to name a few, but their efforts were tentative or overwhelmed in the brilliance of Wells’s exploration of concepts that provided the foundation on which most later science fiction was built.

After Wells the major figures in the evolution of science fiction for the next four decades were editors: Hugo Gernsback in establishing science fiction as a genre when he created the first science-fiction magazine and John W. Campbell in transforming Gernsback’s creation and presiding over the “golden age.” There were, to be sure, significant authors during those forty post-Wellsian years, Edgar Rice Burroughs, for instance, A. Merritt (although his greatness was in romantic fantasy), and Edward Elmer “Doc” Smith, who created the space epic, but their contribution was in popularizing the genre rather than transforming it. What transformed it was Campbell and his introduction of four major writers in the summer of 1939: Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Theodore Sturgeon, and A. E. van Vogt.

To begin at the end of the alphabet, van Vogt unveiled the magic of science and the quest for transcendence. He wrote many mesmerizing stories and novels in which the science is out of this world, but I’ve always preferred The World of Null-A. That belongs in my canon. Sturgeon was best at the short story, where he shifted the focus away from the inventor and the problem solver to the social outcast. He did write a few fine novels, but one was most influential (though it was characteristically made up of three novellas), More Than Human. Heinlein brought new techniques into science fiction that introduced background information seamlessly into the narrative and political issues as suitable material for science fiction. I would not argue against any of the novels published in his second creative decade, but I have a personal preference for The Puppet Masters, in which his artistry and his message seem to be blended in greatest harmony. Asimov brought the voice of calm reason and careful rationality that I most identify with science fiction. Although his The Foundation Trilogy is fundamental, I prefer the later maturity and artistry of his Darwinian The Caves of Steel.

The early 1950s to which The Caves of Steel belongs was a period of special significance for science fiction. It began with the creation of two great new magazines, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Galaxy Science Fiction. The first of these was influential in bringing fantasy and science fiction together in the same magazine and documenting its literary value, but Tony Boucher and Mick McComas’s tastes were more eclectic, and they published few serialized novels (Walter Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz is one exception). Horace Gold, on the other hand, had a mission: to create a slick magazine with a focus on social issues, and he badgered his authors into creativity or rejection. Frederik Pohl and Cyril Kornbluth led the way into social science fiction and naturalized satire into the mainstream of science fiction with The Space Merchants and other innovative texts. But I prefer to teach Pohl’s Gateway, which is a singular accomplishment in combining a novel of character with a concept novel based on speculative science. A few months after The Space Merchants ( Gravy Planet) in the pages of Galaxy came Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man, which described murder detection in a telepathic society, and with literary skill. Some teachers prefer Bester’s The Stars My Destination, but I think The Demolished Man has more generic relevance.

Meanwhile, over in Astounding, Campbell was publishing Hal Clement’s Mission of Gravity, an early and pure example of hard science fiction in which we are led to understand and sympathize with caterpillar-like aliens conditioned by a unique physical environment. One of his heirs, like Larry Niven, would be Gregory Benford, who brought his expertise in physics and literary skills to the service of Timescape. And, a few years after Mission of Gravity, Campbell would publish Frank Herbert’s Dune, an epic response to Asimov’s Foundation universe and the beginning of the science-fiction novel as bestseller—although Dune had difficulty finding a hardcover publisher and only became a bestseller in paperback, along with its sequels. Also in the early ’50s Arthur C. Clarke would publish his Stapledonian Childhood’s End, with its vision of humanity’s place in the universe, and Robert Silverberg would venture into the mainstream with Dying Inside, which considered telepathy as personal burden. I usually paired it with Kurt Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan, which illustrated how the mainstream (or, at least, an author who later became a mainstream concern) was approaching a courtship with science fiction from the other direction.

By the late 1960s the influence of the magazines had faded before the implosion of the field from the failure of the distribution system, competition with television, and the onslaught of book publishing (take your pick). Ursula K. Le Guin produced The Left Hand of Darkness and John Brunner began his inspection of a dystopian future with Stand on Zanzibar. The Left Hand of Darkness was one of the early triumphs of anthropological science fiction as well as one of the pioneer explorations of feminist issues in science fiction, while Stand on Zanzibar brought the literary dystopia into the field (the first of four by Brunner) in the form of a mosaic novel about overpopulation modeled after John Dos Passos’s USA. Another novel of the period was Jack Vance’s The Languages of Pao, which took as its unusual subject the influence of language on psychology and behavior, a novel that for a time I paired in discussion with Samuel R. Delany’s Babel-17, another language-focused novel. I wanted to include an alternate-history example and chose, for a number of virtues including Dick’s concern with the nature of reality, Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle.

My original list concluded with William Gibson’s Neuromancer, which ushered the science-fiction world into the digital century that loomed ahead, with literary pyrotechiques to match, and in the process inspired cyberpunk.

In later sessions I updated my assigned texts with five more-contemporary novels, Ian Banks’s Consider Phlebus, Greg Bear’s Darwin’s Radio, Charles Stross’s Accelerando, China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station, and Octavia Butler’s Dawn.

While these texts may not be a canon in the traditional sense—they have, as their reason for existence on this list, a starting point for classroom discussion—I offer them as a place to start. Some texts, particularly Silverberg’s Dying Inside and Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan, are included to provide examples of texts that are not generically influential (though Dying Inside contributes to the dialogue about telepathy). They belong to that group of unique novels that stand alone, like the works of a few other authors, Ray Bradbury, for instance, or J. G. Ballard, or Gene Wolfe, or Brian Aldiss, whose works are so individual that they speak only for themselves. There is, after all, a place for a “great books” approach, and few authors, including me, would not like to have a novel among them.

Ultimately, though, the canon must be far broader than those meeting the needs of any one purpose. Many years ago Alexei Panshin headed a committee of Science Fiction Writers of America members to come up with such a list, and I updated and adapted the list into what I called “The Basic Science Fiction Library,” later published in Library Journal, with the names of more than 100 authors and the titles of their best-known works. It is available on the website of the Center for the Study of Science Fiction. Somewhere in there, with authors and texts still to be added, is the beginning of a canon, Phil. Let the debate continue.

James Gunn, emeritus professor of English at the University of Kansas, has enjoyed careers in both writing and teaching science fiction. Former president of both SFWA and SFRA, he has received the top awards of both associations. His latest novel is Transgalactic. He taught his first science fiction class in 1969.

THE ALTERNATE VIEW

John G. Cramer | 1988 words

THE DISCOVERY OF PLANET PROXIMA B

The discovery of Proxima b, a planet orbiting roughly in the middle of the habitable zone around the star Proxima Centauri, was reported in the August 26, 2016 issue of the journal Nature by a group of astronomers using the High Accuracy Radial-velocity Planet Searcher (HARPS) at the European Southern Observatory at La Silla, Chile. Proxima Centauri has the distinction of being our Sun’s nearest stellar neighbor, only 4.25 light-years away.

Why did they name the new planet Proxima b? The established planet-naming convention used by planet-finding astronomers is to give the newly discovered planet the name of the star followed by lower case letters starting with “b” for the first planet discovered, “c” for the next one found, and so on. The letter “a” is reserved for the star itself. This convention can be confusing, because the order of the letters reflects the order of discovery and not their distance from the parent star.

The orbit of Proxima b is tilted with respect to the Earth, so that it does not make transits across the disc of the star. Therefore, the planet-detection method of NASA’s Kepler Mission using blocked starlight cannot be used. Instead, the presence of Proxima b was deduced from the 11.2 day wobble it produced in the radial (line of sight) velocity of the star as the planet orbited. There is also weak evidence suggesting a second planet that would have an orbital period of between sixty and five hundred days, but this “signal” is competing with the sizable noise of stellar activity and may not exist. In this column, I want to consider the characteristics of Proxima b and its suitability as the possible site of the first human interstellar colony.

Proxima Centauri is a rather dim red dwarf star, with only 12.3% of the Sun’s mass, only 14.1% of its radius, and only 0.17% of its net energy output. As a consequence, its habitable zone must be rather close to the star. Like most small stars, Proxima Centauri is relatively unstable, and it is known to produce frequent large solar flares. Its corona temperature is relatively low—3,042 K as compared to 5,772 K for our Sun. Most of its emitted light is in the infrared rather than the visible. For this reason, it’s so dim that even though it’s close, it’s not visible in the Earth’s sky to the naked eye.

Further, its relative coolness leads to reduced support of its stellar material against the pull of gravity, resulting in a very high density (mass per unit volume). Our Sun has a density 1.41 times that of water, while Proxima Centauri has a much higher density—56.8 times that of water and 7.23 times that of iron at standard temperature and pressure. While its mass is 129 times greater than that of Jupiter, because of its increased density, its diameter is only 1.5 times that of Jupiter.

The planet Proxima b orbits quite close to Proxima Centauri, at only 5% of the EarthSun orbital distance (0.05 AU). Consequently it makes one complete orbit (one Proxima b year) in only 11.2 days. Because the planet is so close to Proxima Centauri, even though the star has a very low energy output, the average surface temperature of the planet is within the range in which water should be liquid on its surface. Does that mean that Proxima b is habitable? Is it another Earth? Is it perhaps suitable for a human colony? Well, there are a few problems....

First, let’s consider the force of the tides (see my column AV-63 in the January 1995 issue of Analog). We’re familiar with the tidal forces that the Sun and the Moon exert on Earth’s oceans. Such forces depend on the mass density of the producing object and on the third power of the object’s angular size in the sky. As viewed from Earth, the Sun and Moon have about the same angular size. However, the tidal influence of the Moon is three times greater that that of the Sun because the Moon has three times the Sun’s mass density.

Because Proxima b has such a small orbital radius, the star Proxima Centauri, despite its small diameter, will appear to have a 2.86 times larger angular diameter in the sky than does our Sun, as viewed from the Earth. Proxima also has forty times the density of the Sun. That means that the tidal force of Proxima Centauri on Proxima b will be 939 times greater than that the Sun exerts on the Earth.

For this reason, it is very likely that Proxima b is tide-locked to Proxima Centauri. Like Earth’s Moon, Proxima b would always present the same face to Proxima Centauri. This means that Proxima b will have a desert-like hot side and a deep-frozen cold side, with a “twilight zone” band around its mid-region in which the star is always just above or below the horizon, and the temperature lies somewhere between the extremes of the hot and cold sides. It is not clear if a planet could have an Earth-like atmosphere under such circumstances or whether most of the atmospheric gas would freeze out on the cold, dark side of the planet.

However, a tide-locked planet might offer some advantages. Solar energy farms would always be illuminated. Colonists could pick a location with any average temperature they wanted and could hide from the periodic solar flares by keeping dangerous Proxima Centauri just over the horizon and out of harm’s way. However, the twilight zone of Proxima b seems unlikely to provide anything resembling an Earth-like environment.

The wavelengths of light that our human eyes can see, the visible spectrum, range from about 400 nanometers (10-9 meters, abbreviated as nm) at the deep violet edge to 700 nm at the deep red edge. The sunlight from Proxima Centauri peaks at 950 nm, well into in the infrared, and falls off rapidly in the visible region, with the visible light strongly skewed toward the red. If light from the Sun and Proxima Centauri were equal at the red edge of the visible spectrum, the light from Proxima would be ten times weaker at the violet edge. Nobody could get a suntan by lying on a beach of Proxima b.

Since photosynthesis using chlorophyll is at its maximum efficiency at twin wavelengths of around 470 and 660 nm and cuts off to zero for wavelengths longer than 700 nm, Earth-like plants could photosynthesize with only a small fraction of Proxima Centauri’s sunlight. However, silicon solar cells producing electric power peak in conversion efficiency around 700 nm and drop to zero at 1,100 nm. One can imagine that agriculture on Proxima b might be accomplished by placing large solar energy farms soaking up 700 nm light on the hot side of the planet and growing plants in twilight-zone greenhouses illuminated by electrically powered LEDs producing the 470 and 660 nm wavelengths.

There is also the question of the pull of gravity on the planet’s surface. The mass of Proxima b is uncertain, but its mass is a least 1.3 times that of the Earth and could be much more. For a human colony, one key question will be the magnitude of the planet’s surface gravity. That depends on an unknown factor: the mass density of Proxima b. Surface gravity scales as the planetary mass to the 1/3 power times the mass density to the 2/3 power.

Let us assume that Proxima b is spherical, has a mass of say 1.5 Earth-masses, and has the same mass density as Earth, which is 5.97 grams per cubic centimeter. In that case Proxima b’s surface gravity would be 1.145 gees or 11.22 meters per second squared. Colonists would weigh 14% more than on Earth, but they could probably adapt to that without many problems. However, Earth has a rather high density because of its iron-nickel core, and Proxima b, like Mars, might lack such a core. As an alternative, let’s assume then that Proxima b has the mass density of Mars, or 3.93 grams per cubic centimeter. With that density, Proxima b’s surface gravity would be 0.866 gees or 8.50 meters per second squared, making life a bit easier for colonists because they would weigh 14% less than on Earth.

However, our assumption of a spherical planet could be wrong. The strong tidal forces would tend to give the tide-locked planet an ovoid or egg shape, with the long axis pointing at the star. The habitable zone would be in the mid-region of the ovoid where its radius would be smallest. Therefore, the habitable mid-region would be closer to the planet’s center, making the surface gravity higher here than in the hot and cold zones. If the radius was 10% smaller there, the gravity would be 20% larger.

Proxima Centauri has frequent solar flares, and there is debate about whether the resulting ionization would strip away any atmosphere that Proxima b might have. It has been argued that if Proxima b has a molten core like the Earth and rotates on its axis every 11.2 days, this might be sufficient to generate a planetary magnetic field that would protect the atmosphere.

Could there be preexisting life on Proxima b? It is possible, but it seems unlikely. Water, preferably in the form of oceans, may be a prerequisite for the development of life. The Earth with its large oceans is a rather special planet. Earth formed inside the “ice line” of the Solar System, where solar energy is likely to vaporize water and to dry out the pre-planetary material before it can coalesce into a planet. However, an event called “the late heavy bombardment,” probably created by an orbital resonance between the giant planets Jupiter and Saturn, occurred in the Solar System after Earth had formed. In that bombardment great quantities of icy material residing well outside the ice line were dislodged from their orbits. A sizable fraction of that material bombarded the inner planets, delivering great quantities of water to the Earth, creating its oceans, and also making the prominent craters of the Moon. It is unlikely that a similar scenario could have deposited large quantities of water on Proxima b, so the presence of oceans and existing life there is questionable. Further, the frequent solar flares from Proxima Centauri may have repeatedly killed off any emerging life forms. Thus, even if Proxima b has an atmosphere, it is not likely to contain free oxygen.

A lack of native life, however, is perhaps a benefit for Proxima b as the location of a possible human colony. There are arguments that the many arbitrary branch points in the evolution of life will make life that has evolved on other planets very different from that found on Earth. Such alien life would very likely be toxic to us. As a colony site, a sterile planet might be preferable to a biologically hostile one. Such pre-sterilization might make it easier to transplant some simplified version of Earth’s ecosystem to Proxima b.

In summary, the discovery of Proxima b raises the possibility of the planet as a site of a human colony in the closest star system, provided the extremely difficult problem of getting there at all can be solved in the coming centuries. However, the planet would definitely not be Earth-like, and the planetary area that might be habitable would be limited to the “twilight zone” around the middle of the tide-locked planet. Nevertheless, it represents a new opportunity for the expansion of the human race to the stars.

Reference:

A terrestrial planet candidate in a temperate orbit around Proxima Centauri, Gullem Anglada-Escude, et al., Nature 536, 437, 23 August, 2016; arXiv: 1609.03448v1 [astro-phEP].

John G. Cramer’s new book describing his transactional interpretation of quantum mechanics, The Quantum Handshake—Entanglement, Nonlocality, and Transactions, (Springer, Jan 2016) is available online as a printed or eBook at: http://www.springer.com/gp/book/9783319246406.

SF Novels by John Cramer: eBook editions of hard SF novels Twistor and Einstein’s Bridge are available from the Book View Café co-op at: http://bookviewcafe.com/book store/?s=Cramer.

Alternate View Columns Online: Electronic reprints of over 180 “The Alternate View” columns by John G. Cramer, previously published in Analog, are available online at: http://www.npl.washington.edu/av

BIOLOG

Richard A. Lovett | 578 words

TOM GREENE

Tom Greene is a testament to the value of persistence. Like many budding Analog writers, he fell in love with science fiction as a teenager and decided to try writing it. “It’s the stereotypical story,” he says.

His early stories didn’t sell, but Greene was undeterred. “I spent twenty-seven years writing completely unsuccessfully,” he says. “Hundreds of submissions, hundreds of stories.”

In the meantime, he’d been “supposed” to be a biologist. He was good at it, enjoyed it, and, like his high school teachers, presumed it would be his calling... until he realized it would mean spending a lot of time in the lab— not something he wanted to do. So “at the last moment,” he made a radical career shift. “I had pretty good grades in English,” he says, “so I made a sudden left turn into English literature.”

He wound up with a Master’s of Fine Arts degree, then got a Ph.D. in British literature and became an English professor at a community college near his hometown of Salem, Massachusetts. But, despite the fact that none other than science fiction grandmaster Samuel R. (Chip) Delany had been his MFA thesis advisor, Greene’s stories continued not to sell.

Part of the problem, he now realizes, is that graduate-school writing programs tend to require writing a lot of work, written for grades. The incentive is to avoid wasting time experimenting and to focus on stories that will help you graduate, even if “your artistic direction may be pulling you a different way.” (During the whole process, he notes, “Chip was the one nice, shining part.”)

Greene’s epiphany came decades later when he joined the online writing group Critters and was reading another writer’s story. “It wasn’t bad,” he says, “just kind of boring.” Intrigued, he went all the way back to the pre-Golden-Age works of Edgar Rice Burroughs. “I read A Princess of Mars [1917] and couldn’t put it down,” he says. “[Burroughs is] racist and sexist and clichéd, but I couldn’t stop reading.”

Since then he’s decided that as long as readers care about what is happening, they are willing to forgive a lot of things literary critics see as flaws. For example, he notes that every semester he teaches (and rereads) George Orwell’s classic, 1984. “If you do that twice a year for twenty years,” he says, “you eventually start to see flaws.”

Maybe, he says, just as people remember the best parts of their personal relationships, they do the same with stories. “Maybe as writers we focus too much on avoiding flaws, without remembering it’s the high points that are going to stand out afterward,” he says. Not that avoiding flaws and writing good prose are mutually exclusive goals. “My ambition is to keep the reader engaged and also have something that resembles good writing,” he says.

Meanwhile, his advice to Analog readers is not to lose faith in the value of hard science fiction, even when it seems that other forms of speculative fiction are getting all the attention. “I think [science fiction] will always have a place in modern industrialized society,” he says. “I had a teacher in college who called it the mythology of the technical age. And while he wasn’t the first to say that, he was the first I heard say it. Science fiction tells us the possibilities for the Universe, and what our place might be. I don’t think there’s a substitute for that.”

And, he notes, “every time someone declares that hard science fiction is dead, [something like] The Martian comes out [and proves them wrong].”

IN TIMES TO COME

306 words

Normally this is where I let you in on the content you can look forward to in the next issue, and I’m still going to do that, but I want to talk about something even bigger first:

Effective immediately, with the very magazine you hold in your hands, Analog will be publishing only double issues—six of them per year. Right off the bat, you’ll see more novellas, longer book review columns, and more variety in the themes that thread through the stories. (For example, our next issue will have both the usual lighter April fare as well as a selection of time-travel pieces.)

The main advantage is that this format allows us to hold current subscription prices a bit longer. (You may have already noticed that this issue is 208 pages instead of our customary 192 for double issues; we worked hard to make sure that there wouldn’t be any loss of content.)

So, what kinds of things can you expect in this brave new world? Well, we have two novellas: “Nexus” by Michael F. Flynn, and John Alfred Taylor’s “Plaisir d’Amour”; “Sustainability Lab 101,” our fact article from Stanley Schmidt; and a trio of novelettes—“Europa’s Survivors” by Marianne J. Dyson; “Host” by Eneaz Brodski; and “The Human Way” by Tony Ballantyne—as well as almost a full “single” issue’s worth of short stories, some light-hearted, like “Ecuador vs. the Bug-Eyed Monsters” by Jay Werkheiser, and “Concerning the Devastation Wrought by the Nefarious Gray Comma and Its Ilk,” by Tim McDaniel; and some that involve a relative rarity in these pages: time travel. “Eli’s Coming,” by Catherine Wells; “Grandmaster” by Jay O’Connell; “Alexander’s Theory of Special Relativity” by Shane Halbach; “Time Heals” by James C. Glass; and “The Snatchers” by Edward P. McDermott—all struck a chord with me (for different reasons), and I bet at least some of them will for you, too.

See you back here next issue!

THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

Don Sakers | 3070 words

As far as science fiction is concerned, the Solar System is like high school. There are popular kids and outcasts, kids we’d date and those we wouldn’t, bullies and victims.

The Moon was our first love; when she gave us the cold shoulder we tried to forget about her, but you know we still look longingly in her direction. Mars is the star quarterback, lead in the spring musical, and champion of the math club all rolled into one; we spend a lot of time with him, probably more than is good for us. Venus is the head cheerleader, very hot but not very welcoming no matter how we approach her. Jupiter’s the big guy on campus, with plenty of followers and sycophants; we drift occasionally into and out of his orbit. Saturn’s the really attractive one; we’ve dallied but we know we’re not really in that class. And Pluto is the weird “goth” kid who fascinates us.

Those are the kids we pay the most attention to. We’ve spent some time with Uranus and Neptune, but they’re usually beyond our reach; the other goths hang around in the Kuiper Belt and we don’t notice them. Ceres and the other asteroids are the stoners of the system, mostly keeping to themselves but often causing disruption when they move among the rest of us.

Then there’s poor Mercury. You’d think SF would pay more attention to the innermost planet, but by and large we don’t. And I think I know why: Not that long ago, Mercury lied to us, big time, and we still don’t trust it.

Until 1965, science fiction thought that Mercury was fascinating: a tidally locked world with one face in eternal day, the other in everlasting night. In between was a potentially habitable twilight zone.

It was a great place for stories. Ray Cummings gave us a trio of planetary romances set on a two-faced Mercury: Tama of the Light Country (1930), Tama, Princess of Mercury (1931), and Aerita of the Light Country (1941). Clark Ashton Smith told of The Immortals of Mercury (1932). Leigh Brackett set several of her stories on Mercury, and her hero Eric John Stark was born there. Several classic stories set on Mercury were published in these pages, including Clifford D. Simak’s “Masquerade” (Astounding, March 1941) and “Runaround” by Isaac Asimov (Astounding, March 1942). Alan E. Nourse’s classic “Brightside Crossing” (1956) told the tale of a harrowing crossing of the dayside at perihelion, and Larry Niven set “The Coldest Place” (1964) on Mercury’s nightside.

Mercury featured in a number of books for teens. These included Battle on Mercury (Lester del Rey, 1956), Lucky Starr and the Big Sun of Mercury (Isaac Asimov, 1956), and Mission to Mercury (Hugh Walters, 1965). Kurt Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan (1959) painted a lyrical picture of cavedwelling Mercury natives called harmoniums, who fed on vibrations in the planet’s rock.

Then the bottom fell out. Scientists spying on Mercury found that it wasn’t the planet we believed: It was tidally-locked all right, but in a spin-orbit resonance of 3:2 instead of 1:1—three Mercury days for every two Mercury years. Goodbye day side, night side, and twilight zone.

Since then, SF has largely stayed away from Mercury. Oh, we use it when we have no choice. For example, Arthur C. Clarke’s Rendezvous with Rama (1973) planted a colony of ill-tempered miners on Mercury. In

Sundiver (1980), David Brin based his solar explorers on the planet. In Stephen Baxter’s Manifold: Space (2000), a retreating humanity makes its last stand against alien invaders on Mercury. Karl Schroeder, in Lockstep (2014), went so far as to break Mercury to pieces, using the mass to create a Dyson cloud.

Of course, a few SF books have treated Mercury with a bit more respect. In “Retrograde Summer” (1975), John Varley had characters (protected by force-field suits) swimming in pools of boiling mercury and having a generally nice time on the planet. Ben Bova dutifully included Mercury (2005) as one of the destinations in his Grand Tour series. Below Mercury (2011) by Mark Anson is a thriller set in an abandoned ice mine at Mercury’s south pole.

Since 1985 (The Memory of Whiteness), Kim Stanley Robinson has been exploring the idea of a Mercurian city called Terminator, a city that rides equatorial rails so as to keep the Sun always on the horizon. Terminator, largely populated by musicians and artists, figures heavily in Robinson’s recent masterpiece 2312. (Oddly enough, Charles Stross used the same concept in Saturn’s Children, 2008.)

Mercury hasn’t fared much better in the realm of movie and TV science fiction. In one episode of Futurama (“Put Your Head on My Shoulder,” 2000), Mercury was home to “Hg’s Fuel: Last Fuel ’Til You Circle the Planet and Return Here”—nevertheless, the characters ran out of fuel.

Extrasolar planets should take a lesson from Mercury. If you want SF to pay attention to you, don’t lie to us about your astrophysical properties. With more of you being discovered daily, there are plenty of fish in your sea.

The Caloris Network

Nick Kanas

Springer, 124 pages, $19.99 (trade paperback)

Kindle, Nook: $9.99 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-3-319-30577-6

Genre: Hard SF, Nonfiction

Dr. Nick Kanas, Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society and Emeritus Professor of Psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco, is an expert on space psychology and psychiatry. He’s also a lifelong SF reader and author of two previous Springer science fiction novels (The New Martians, 2013, and The Protos Mandate, 2014).

In The Caloris Network it’s 2130, and the planet Mercury has become a hazard to navigation. Strange patterns of electromagnetic radiation emitting from the planet are destroying passing spaceships. The first-ever expedition to Mercury is dispatched to find the source of this radiation.

Samantha Evans is an exobiologist. Raised on a space station orbiting Earth, she’s been from one end of the Solar System to another, researching microbes on Mars and Europa and establishing a name for herself. She’s elated to be included in the crew of the Mercury expedition, although she doubts that she’ll find any life to study.

The expedition lands safely, and at first their explorations go well. Then, of course, problems develop. Some crewmembers seem to have secrets they’re not sharing. As the temperature rises, tensions increase. Meanwhile, political struggles convulse the Solar System: The Mars Secessionist movement is growing stronger, and the military is put on alert.

In the midst of these tensions, the crew discovers the source of Mercury’s strange radiation: a network of silicon-based crystals that grows and repairs itself as if alive. Examining this network, Samantha discovers that it’s not just alive; it’s a conscious entity. And it doesn’t particularly like human invaders.

Protected by their force field, the expedition is confined to their ship... and is trapped on the surface. A military response from the Solar System’s government only makes things worse.

It’s up to Samantha to find a way to communicate with the alien intelligence and save them all.

This is a Springer book, so the story is followed by a section called “The Science Behind the Story,” in which Kanas discusses the notion of silicon-based life on Mercury.

Kanas tells a good story, with the mix of strong, believable characters and accurate science that Analog readers enjoy. Samantha’s story is intercut with flashbacks to her family life, in particular her father’s developing illness, which adds a strong human element to the situation on Mercury.

Invisible Planets: Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction in Translation

edited by Ken Liu

Tor, 384 pages, $24.99 (hardcover)

Kindle, Nook: $11.99 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-7653-8419-5

Genre: Original Anthology

The 2015 Hugo Award for Best Novel went to Chinese SF writer Liu Cixin’s The Three-Body Problem (translated into English by Ken Liu). Since then, the Western SF world has been fascinated with Chinese science fiction. Ken Liu, himself a two-time Hugo winner, has put together a fine sampler of contemporary Chinese SF. Liu translated all the stories in this volume.

Liu Cixin, a power plant engineer whom the New Yorker called “China’s Arthur C. Clarke,” is the senior author in this crowd, represented by two stories and a short essay. The other six authors are from a younger generation, up-and-coming stars of Chinese SF. They’re as varied as any half-dozen American SF writers. Chen Qiufan (three stories and one essay) leans toward what we’d call magical realism. Xia Jia (three stories, one essay) has a more literary bent that straddles hard and soft SF. Ma Boyong’s one story (“The City of Silence”) is a dystopian tale of censorship gone crazy.

Hao Jingfang has two completely different stories. “Invisible Planets” (from which Liu took the anthology’s title) is a travelogue of imaginary worlds that reminds one of Jorge Luis Borges or Italo Calvino, while “Folding Beijing” is set in a near-future dystopia.

Tang Fei’s “Call Girl,” set in a society in which magical storytellers occupy the same place as prostitutes, explores the relationship between imagination and desire. And Cheng Jingbo’s “Grave of the Fireflies” is a lyrical story of a far-future interstellar migration of the human race that somehow reads like a combination of the best of Olaf Stapledon, Cordwainer Smith, and Roger Zelazny.

Ken Liu’s introduction nicely sets the stage for the stories to come. After the stories, three short essays by Ken Liu, Chen Qiufan, and Xia Jia address different aspects of the question “What is Chinese science fiction?” All come to the same general conclusion: Chinese SF isn’t any one thing, no more than American SF is a single thing.

If there are common themes among Chinese SF writers, they involve the same topics that concern most of the world today: modernity, globalization, the yearning for a secure and sustainable future. But you don’t have to worry about definitions; Invisible Planets is first and foremost a collection of some fine speculative fiction.

Everfair

Nisi Shawl

Tor, 364 pages, $26.99 (hardcover)

iBooks, Kindle, Nook: $12.99 (e-book) ISBN: 978-0-7653-3805-1

ISBN: 978-0-7653-3805-1 Genre: Alternate History

Genre: Alternate History

Nisi Shawl’s short stories have appeared in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, The Infinite Matrix, and many other venues. She’s won the James Tiptree, Jr. Award and been nominated for a World Fantasy Award. Well known in afrofuturist and feminist circles, Shawl has edited several SF/fantasy anthologies, including tribute anthologies for Samuel R. Delany (Stories for Chip, 2015) and Octavia Butler (Strange Matings, 2015). She’s the co-author of the seminal 2005 book Writing the Other: Bridging Cultural Differences for Successful Fiction.

Everfair is Shawl’s first novel, and it’s a doozy: an epic alternate history that combines a steampunk sensibility with a response to one of the least-known and harshest tyrannies in history.

From 1885 to 1908, King Leopold II of Belgium ruled the Belgian Congo as his own personal colonial estate. Through merciless exploitation of the native population, he amassed an enormous fortune in ivory and the rubber industry. Forced labor, beatings, mutilation, and killings led to a death toll that’s been estimated at ten million.

In Everfair, steam power comes to Africa early. In the 1890s, an international coalition of English socialists and African-American missionaries purchase Congo Basin land from Leopold and establish upon it a community called Everfair. Over the next few decades, Everfair becomes a safe haven for natives as well as for escaped African slaves from around the world. Everfair also becomes a nucleus of the industrial revolution and a multicultural near-utopia that attracts outcasts and refugees from everywhere.

The book, which covers the period 18891919, is a vast, sprawling saga told through the eyes of a large cast of characters, including English Fabians, African ex-royalty, American inventors, spies, missionaries, and pilots of air canoes. Shawl does a magnificent job of making her characters real and relatable, intertwining the threads of their various stories into a tapestry that feels like authentic history. There’s adventure, intrigue, philosophy, romance, technology, and a sense of common humanity that flows smoothly through the entire narrative.

If Octavia Butler, Ursula K. LeGuin, and Harry Turtledove were to have written a book together, it might have come out something like Everfair. This is definitely not one to miss.

Women of Futures Past

edited by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Baen, 267 pages, $16.00 (trade paperback)

iBooks, Kindle, Nook: $8.99 (e-book) ISBN: 978-1-4767-8161-7

ISBN: 978-1-4767-8161-7

Genre: Original Anthology

You wouldn’t know it from the Table of Contents in any modern issue of Analog (or, for that matter, the contents of this column), but apparently there’s a perception out there that women don’t write science fiction. So argues Kristine Kathryn Rusch, herself a woman who writes SF and the editor of this new anthology.

Actually, I’ve seen and heard it, and I’ll bet many of you have too. I’ve had many women writers tell me that they don’t submit stories to Analog because they “know” the magazine only publishes stories by men. Women have told me they don’t read the magazine because it’s exclusively aimed at men. (Would all the women currently reading this raise your hands? Uh-huh, I thought so. Lots of hands raised.)

It particularly bothered Rusch when she noticed that many classic stories by women—award-winning stories—were no longer anthologized. That the current generation of readers and writers no longer recognized named like Leigh Brackett, Zenna Henderson, Anne McCaffrey, or C. L. Moore. That even still-productive women like Lois McMaster Bujold, Pat Cadigan, and Connie Willis went unrecognized.

So Rusch put together this anthology, and it’s a gift to all SF readers.

Here are an even dozen stories by as many authors, each and every one of them a bona fide classic of science fiction. In addition to the authors named above, you also get C. J. Cherryh, Nancy Kress, Ursula K. LeGuin, Andre Norton, James Tiptree, Jr. The earliest (Moore’s “Shambleau”) was first published in 1933; the latest (“Angel” by Pat Cadigan) in 1987. None, I’m sorry to say, were published in Astounding/Analog.

The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.

—Jane Austin

Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s 25-page introduction is a marvelous extended argument for why she felt this book was necessary; she states the case much more completely and competently than I can in just a few hundred words. In the course of it, she points the way to lots of other good science fiction classics by women (especially an Octavia Butler story that she desperately wanted to include but couldn’t clear the rights for).

If you disagree with Rusch’s premise, or have some philosophical objection, don’t think of this as a collection of classic SF stories by women. Consider it a collection of classic SF stories that aren’t easily available elsewhere. Either way, read it.

Alliance of Equals

Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

Baen, 355 pages, $26.00 (hardcover)

Kindle: $7.99, iBooks, Nook: $9.99 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-4767-8148-8 Series: Liaden Universe

Genre: Romantic SF, Space Opera

Some historian of the field needs to write more about the many married couples who have contributed to science fiction: C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner; Edmond Hamilton and Leigh Brackett; Kate Wilhelm and Damon Knight; Lester and Judy-Lynn Del Rey; Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith, just to name a few... and, of course, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller.

Lee & Miller’s Liaden Universe series of space opera with romance overtones is one of the most popular and best-loved ongoing series in science fiction. The series, set far in the future, involves the interstellar politics of three related races: Terrans (normal humans), Ystrang (brutish thugs), and the Liaden (cultured and philosophical). The main thread revolves around the Liaden Clan Korval, a wealthy, aristocratic family of traders.

Lately the fortunes of Clan Korval have been in decline. Forced off their homeworld by the Department of the Interior (DOI), they’ve had to relocate to the planet Surebleak—which is every bit as hospitable as its name suggests. With funds depleted and the Clan’s far-flung trading network disrupted, Master Trader Shan yos’Galan and the crew of the flagship Dutiful Passage set out on a mission to find new customers and rebuild Korval’s shattered reputation.

But the DOI isn’t finished with Clan Korval. Instead of the welcome reception he’s used to at trade ports across the galaxy, Shan finds his ship barred from landing and his Clan blacklisted. On other ports, Korval’s trade missions are attacked by armed DOI agents and harassed by local security forces.

One of Dutiful Passage’s crew is Shan’s heir, apprentice Trader Padi yos’Galan. Padi’s young and ambitious, and she’s eager to do her part in bringing back Clan Korval’s vanished prestige. But Padi also carries a secret that could destabilize the interstellar order... and quite possibly lead she and her crew to their deaths.

It’s a fun story filled with action, adventure, intrigue, and romance. Don’t worry if you haven’t read any other Liaden books; this one stands on its own and is a great introduction to the whole delightful universe.

A Crack in the Sky Above Titan

Andrew D. Thaler 91 pages

91 pages

Kindle: $2.99 (e-book)

Genre: Hard SF, Nanotechnology

Centuries in the future, the Salvager is an augmented human sailing the methane seas of Titan.

The Salvager was once a sea captain on Earth, with a long-forgotten name and a body that’s been rebuilt and replaced so many times that no trace of the original remains. Now the Salvager is master of the small ship Calliope and its crew of fragile, delicate robots, making a living as an independent salvager, retrieving crashed spacecraft and abandoned equipment from the methane sea called Kraken Mare.

Trade Winds, the largest colony on Titan, heavily taxes all salvage operations in its territory. The Salvager avoids the territory of the Trade Winds economic zone.

And now the Salvager is on the trail of the prize of a lifetime. The Mars Long Haul trade ship Tranquility, loaded with valuable cargo bound for the Kuiper Belt colonies, recently crashed in Kraken Mare outside the Trade Winds zone. It’s fair game to whatever salvagers can reach it first, and Calliope is in an excellent position to do so.

Of course, others are on their way too: other independent salvagers, who would probably be open to deals; the Trade Winds navy, armed and determined to keep the spoils for themselves; even the Martians are sending a salvage crew from a base among the asteroids. Getting to Tranquility will only be the first challenge... keeping hold of the ship will be harder. Tranquility itself may carry a few surprises of its own.

... And then, of course, there are the Titan native lifeforms.

A Crack in the Sky Above Titan is the sort of story you’d expect to be the two-part serial starting in Analog’s next issue. Andrew D. Thaler, who earned a Ph.D. in marine science and conservation from Duke University, is a visiting scientist at the Virginia Institute of Marine Science. He works with underwater robots and runs a website devoted to marine science and conservation. In short, this guy knows his stuff. He’s married practical marine science and technology with state-of-the-art speculation about conditions on the seas of Titan.

With echoes of Charles Stross and Rudy Rucker, Thaler’s got a winning story here. It’s e-book only, but the price is right. Don’t miss it.

Finally, in the first-published-in- Analog department, Edward M. Lerner’s serial Dark Secret (April–July/August 2013) is now out in book form from PhoenixPick.

With that, I’m afraid I’ve run out of space. See you next issue.

Don Sakers is the author of Meat and Machine, Elevenses, and the Rule of Five serial at rule-of-5.com. For more information, visit www.scatteredworlds.com.

BRASS TACKS

1126 words

Trevor Quachri,

I commend you and the magazine for providing footnotes in your not-fiction sections, but I am distracted by the scheme you have chosen. You use the same style and indexing for footnotes that point to citations as you do for commentary. I don’t need to follow citations while I am reading a piece, but I do appreciate commentary as elaboration, in context. I don’t know which I’m getting while reading until I break my flow and look. Then I have to refocus (physically and mentally) to pick up where I left off.

I would prefer to see you use endnotes for citations, removing the distraction from within the articles, and limit footnotes to on-page elaboration. To clue in the reader, perhaps you could use numbers to identify endnote citations and letters or symbols to indicate commentary (or include commentary in-line as parentheticals).

In a related vein, I do appreciate your attention to how-to-write-well and similar non-fiction content, beyond your longstanding science fact offerings.

Tom Powers

Hudson, MA

Analog readers: We’re interested in your opinion: endnotes or footnotes? Let us know…

Dear Editor,

I enjoyed Christina De La Rocha’s short story “Pleistocene Brains” appearing in the July/August 2016 issue. It took a while but I finally figured it out. Given that the redhaired Pebbles appears early in the story, we can only infer that the quartzite hammerstone-welding Professor Chretin is in fact bamm-bamm. Holy frijole!

Jack Courtney

Dear Mr. Quachri,

I was very much taken by “Pleistocene Brains” by Christina De La Rocha (interesting name!) in the July/August Analog.

Over the years I have come across many men (no women) who have resembled the accepted depiction of Neanderthals as robust, barrel-chested and muscular. Three of them were Basques, which is also interesting.

Just a few weeks ago I watched the TV series “The Dark Ages: An Age Of Light” presented by Waldemar Januszczak who is by far the finest example I have yet seen of the Neanderthal phenotype among us. His gait and even his face and voice are what one might imagine to be typical of a Neanderthal. I have no idea what the back of a Neanderthal’s head would look like, so I don’t know if that part of his anatomy is consonant.

As the gentleman is a recognized scholar, I doubt he would mind the resemblance and that fact also nicely supports the story.

The name “Januszczak” would have to have an unusual back-story, though just in the last few hundred years.

John Jenkins

Forster, Australia

Editor Quachri:

It used to be that the semiannual “double issues” were Analog’s best offerings each year. This is certainly not the case with the current July/August 2016 issue!

Why has gratuitous sexual content suddenly become acceptable in Analog stories?

For example, in the current issue readers find:

In the novella “Fall,” randy promiscuity serves as virtually half the plot of this weak “Rist” episode. The novella, “Purytans,” could have been commissioned by an LGBT activist group. That story’s content was painful to read and poorly written to boot. The short story, “The Battle of Ceres,” begins with a throwaway scene of sexual intercourse initiated by the female starship commander. And why in the last year or two have nearly all “commanders” and most principle characters become female? As penance for past “male chauvinism” in science fiction stories?

I assume that the editorial change is a gamble on your part to try and gain new readership for the magazine. However, I think Analog will lose more subscribers than it might gain by this change in editorial philosophy.

Lawrence Diersen

Monroeville, PA

P.S. “Pleistocene Brains” and “The Metal Demimonde” were both fine stories. Too bad there were not more like them in the current double issue. I notice that the names of the authors of those two stories are not highlighted on the square-bound edge of the magazine.

I’m sorry to hear you didn’t care for that issue. There’s room to differ on what constitutes “gratuitous” generally, but I have to disagree that there’s anything gratuitous about “Purytans” specifically: matters of sex and gender are very much integral to the story. Tastes will vary, but I think it’s one of Brad’s best and, based on the Readers’ Awards he’s won in the past, I suspect you’re in the minority on the matter. I’d be curious to know what you’ve thought of the other pieces of Brad’s that we’ve run, though.

As to your next point, I don’t agree that “nearly all” principle characters HAVE become female. I would hope that a roughly representative amount of them are, which is a different matter. Accurate depiction isn’t “penance”; it’s correcting a misperception.

Lastly, you assume incorrectly (you know the old adage, no doubt). There has been no editorial change, let alone a gamble to try to gain new subscribers: there doesn’t have to be. As the general public becomes more aware of how unlikely and parochial a future full of nobody but white men is, so too, are authors, and those authors are going to send their stories to this magazine. Time marches on, and Analog should have no problem keeping pace.

PS: I’ll note that both “Pliestocene Brains” and “The Metal Demimonde” have female principle characters, and you seem to have enjoyed them nonetheless.

Dear Trevor,

Ed Lerner’s “A Mind Of Its Own/Part I: Artificial Intelligence” was enjoyable and informative like his previous articles in the series. Years ago, when I was writing about computing regularly for a local (St. Louis) publication, I coined the term “Artificial Stupidity.” I doubt I was the first but it was a useful concept that made sense. In those early days, a car that repeatedly warned the driver about low oil pressure when the engine wasn’t running or a microwave oven that continued beeping after you opened the door were common examples.

His “lawyer joke,” “Where there’s a will... There’s a probate” was funny. My own response would be “Where there’s a will... There’s a won’t” but perhaps I’ve simply been married too long.

The notion of language brought to mind some of my frustration with text-to-speech and voice recognition. A former coworker’s name is Brittany. Everyone knows how to pronounce it. But the text-to-speech on a phone I was using at the time insisted on Brit-TAY-ny. Locally, there are places called “Des Peres,” which is pronounced “Day Pair.” Everyone around here knows that. But the voice of my GPS insists on “Dess Pairess,” rhyming the name with “mess heiress.” I’ve heard the same pronunciation from people who don’t live in the St. Louis area. “Big Bang Theory” fans will recall character Barry Kripke’s frustration with Siri’s response to his query “Wecommend a westauwant.”

I also always enjoy anything written by Richard A. Lovett but I was a bit surprised by an apparent typo in his “Alternate View” column “Pluto’s Perplexing Polygons.” At one point, he used the expression “about 44°K.” I was under the impression that the degrees symbol was not used with Kelvin.

David Phelps,

St. Louis, MO

2016 Index

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Here is the Index to 2016, Analog’s Volume CXXXVI. Entries are arranged alphabetically by author, with month and page. When the author’s name and/or part of the entry’s title is omitted, it is the same as that of the previous entry. Multiple entries by the same author are listed alphabetically according to the story/article title. Collaborations are listed under all authors with cross references. Unless otherwise noted, each entry is identified as an Alternate View (av), editorial (ed), fact article (fa), guest editorial (ge), novella (na), novelette (nt), poem (pm), Probability Zero (pz), serial (se), special feature (sf), or short story (ss).

IT’S ANLAB TIME AGAIN

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YOUR BALLOT WILL BE AUTOMATICALLY ENTERED IN OUR DRAWING FOR A FREE ONE-YEAR SUBSCRIPTION!

Welcome to the year 2017! As usual, we’re asking you to choose your favorites via the Analytical Laboratory. Not only will your votes provide tangible awards for authors and artists, but your feedback will help guide the selections we offer you in the future. Your vote is important!

Look over all your copies of Analog dated 2016, or refer to the index on the following pages. Pick your three favorites in each of the following categories: novella, novelette, short story, science fact article, cover, and poetry . If you’re not sure about a piece’s category, you’ll find it listed both in the Table of Contents for the issue in which it appeared, and in the Index. In the event of a disagreement between the Table of Contents and the Index, the Index should be considered correct. List your choices in order of preference (your favorite in each category is #1) on the ballot below, and either mail it in or send it by e-mail. You can also vote at our website, www.analogsf.com. The ballot is intended to make it easier for you to vote, but if you don’t want to cut it out, feel free to copy it.

To be sure your vote counts, please have it reach us by February 1, 2017. Please, only vote once! Thank you very much! Votes via snail mail: AnLab, Analog, 44 Wall Street, Suite 904, New York, NY 10005. Votes via the Internet: www.analogsf.com or analogsf@dellmagazines.com

UPCOMING EVENTS

Anthony Lewis | 357 words

NOTE: Membership rates and other details often change after we have gone to press. In addition, most conventions have age-based membership rates in advance and at the door. There also may be rates for single days. Check the websites for the most recent information.

2–4 December 2016

SMOFCON 2016 (SF conference-runners convention) at Crowne Plaza Chicago O’Hare Hotel & Conference Center, Rosemont, IL. Info: http://www.smofcon.com/34/; Science Fiction Outreach Project 7665 N Sheridan Road, Unit 1A Chicago, IL 60626.

3–4 December 2016

WINTER NORTHEAST COMIC CON at Shriner’s Auditorium, 99 Fordham Road, Wilmington, MA. Info: www.NEComic Con.net.

13–16 January 2017

ARISIA 2017 (New England speculative fiction conference) at Boston Westin Waterfront Hotel, Boston, MA. Author Guest of Honor: Ursula Vernon, Artist Guest of Honor: Stephanie Law, Radio Guest of Honor: Krypton Radio, Fan Guest of Honor: Greykell Dutton. Info: arisia.org.

3–5 February 2017

FOOLSCAP (Seattle area SF conference) at Hilton Seattle Airport, SeaTac WA. Guest of Honor: Patricia Briggs. Info: foolscap.org.

9–12 February 2017

INTERCON Q: QUIXOTIC (Rhode Island Gaming and LARP conference) At Crowne Plaza Hotel, Warwick RI. Info: http://q.intercon larp.org.

17–19 February 2017 BOSKONE 54 (New England regional SF conference) at Boston Westin Waterfront Hotel, Boston MA. Guest of Honor: Brandon Sanderson, Official Artist: Dave Seeley, Special Guest: Maryelizabeth Yturralde, Featured Filkers: The Fabulous Lorraine & Lojo Russo, Science Speaker: Milton, NESFA Press Guest: Ken MacLeod. Info: www.boskone.org; info@boskone.org; PO Box 809, Framingham MA 01760.

24–26 February 2017 MYSTICON (Roanoke area SF conference) at Holiday Inn Tanglewood, Roanoke VA. Author Guests of Honor: David Weber and Joe R. Lansdale, Musical Guest of Honor: Bella Morte, MC: Rich Sigfrit. Info: mysti con-va.com.

9–13 August 2017 WORLDCON 75 (75th World Science Fiction Convention) at Messukeskus, the Helsinki Expo and Convention Centre, Helsinki, Finland. Guests of Honour: John-Henri Holmberg, Nalo Hopkinson, Johanna Sinisalo, Claire Wendling, Walter Jon Williams. This is the SF universe’s annual get-together. Professionals and readers from all over the world will be in attendance. Talks, panels, films, fancy dress competition—the works. Nominate and vote for the Hugos. Info: http://www.worldcon.fi/; info@worldcon.fi.

Running a convention? If your convention has a telephone or fax number, e-mail address, or web page, please let us know so that we can publish this information. We must have your information in hand SIX months before the date of your convention.

Information

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TREVOR QUACHRI.....................................Editor

EMILY HOCKADAY.....................Assistant Editor

DEANNA MCLAFFERTY........Editorial Assistant

JAYNE KEISER...................Typesetting Director

SUZANNE LEMKE.............Typesetting Manager

KEVIN DORIS...Senior Typesetting Coordinator

VICTORIA GREEN.................Senior Art Director

CINDY TIBERI...........................Production Artist

JENNIFER RUTH................Production Manager

ABIGAIL BROWNING............................Manager, Subsidiary Rights and Marketing

SANDY MARLOWE.............Circulation Services

PETER KANTER

Publisher

BRUCE SHERBOW

Senior Vice President Sales, Marketing, and IT

CHRISTINE BEGLEY

Vice President, Editorial and Product Development

SUSAN MANGAN

Vice President, Design and Production

Published since 1930 First issue of Astounding

January 1930 ©

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Cover design by Victoria Green Cover Art by Kurt Huggins for “The Proving Ground”

Analog Science Fiction and Fact (Astounding), Vol. CXXXVII, Nos. 1 & 2, January/February 2017. ISSN 1059-2113, USPS 488-910, GST#123054108. Double issues published bimonthly by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. One-year subscription $47.94 in the United States and possessions, in all other countries $56.94 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within eight weeks of receipt of order. When reporting change of address allow 6 to 8 weeks and give new address as well as the old address as it appears on the last label. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. (c) 2016 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without express permission is prohibited. All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any similarity is coincidental. All submissions must be accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope, the publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork.

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Table of Contents

Analog Science Fiction and Fact

The Proving Ground

Twilight’s Captives

The Shallowest Waves

After the Harvest, Before the Fall

Whending My Way Back Home

Orbit of Fire, Orbit of Ice

Long Haul

Catching Zeus

Drifting Like Leaves, Falling Like Acorns

Dall’s Last Message

The Last Mayan Aristocrat

Necessary Illusions

Paradise Regained

Briz

Split Signal

Rendezvous with a Comet:

Throw Me a Bone

New Planet Landscape 38

UFOlogy

GUEST EDITORIAL

CANONS TO THE LEFT, CANONS TO THE RIGHT

THE ALTERNATE VIEW

THE DISCOVERY OF PLANET PROXIMA B

BIOLOG

TOM GREENE

IN TIMES TO COME

THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

BRASS TACKS

2016 Index

IT’S ANLAB TIME AGAIN

UPCOMING EVENTS

Information