TABLE OF CONTENTS

Issue 142, March 2022

FROM THE EDITOR

Editorial: March 2022

SCIENCE FICTION

The Heaven That They Never Knew

Merc Fenn Wolfmoor

An Exegesis of the Socioreligious Ramifications of the Collection of Peribi

Daniel David Froid

Parables of Infinity

Robert Reed

The Historiography of Loss

Julianna Baggott

FANTASY

Bhatia, PI

Shiv Ramdas

Hood Alchemy

Nicole D. Sconiers

Nine Tails of a Soap Empire

Maria Dong

All the Time We’ve Left to Spend

Alyssa Wong

EXCERPTS

Sweep of Stars

Maurice Broaddus

NONFICTION

Book Review: The Blood Trials by N.E. Davenport

Aigner Loren Wilson

Book Review: Screams From the Dark, edited by Ellen Datlow

Arley Sorg

Book Review: Hunt The Stars, by Jessie Mihalik

Chris Kluwe

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

Shiv Ramdas

Daniel David Froid

Maria Dong

Julianna Baggott

MISCELLANY

Coming Attractions

Stay Connected

Subscriptions and Ebooks

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

About the Lightspeed Team

Also Edited by John Joseph Adams

© 2022 Lightspeed Magazine

Cover by Grandeduc / Adobe Stock

www.lightspeedmagazine.com

Published by Adamant Press

Editorial: March 2022

John Joseph Adams | 302 words

Welcome to Lightspeed’s 142nd issue!

Once upon a time, television viewers enjoyed the thrilling investigations, fast cars, and casual lifestyle of Magnum, PI. This month, we’re delighted to offer you Shiv Ramdas’ new fantasy novelette, “Bhatia, PI,” which features a thrilling investigation, fast lies, and a lifestyle not so much casual as “totally out of cash.” If you’re looking for a few good laughs, we think Bhatia has you covered.

Our other original fantasy works include Maria Dong’s new story “Nine Tails of a Soap Empire”—a tale of obsession and power that will make you re-think the bubbles beside your sink. Nicole D. Sconiers returns to our pages with a flash piece called “Hood Alchemy,” a rumination on the way ordinary objects can change us—even without magic. Our fantasy reprint is “All the Time We’ve Left to Spend” by Alyssa Wong.

Our SF shorts include a scholarly essay from beyond the apocalypse: “An Exegesis of the Socioreligious Ramifications of the Collection of Peribi,” by Daniel David Froid. If you’ve ever caved and bought your kid a fast food meal just because of the toys, this story might have extra resonance. In her new story “The Historiography of Loss,” Julianna Baggott wonders what might happen if we could recreate the past, and what we might learn if we did. Merc Fenn Wolfmoor contributes a flash story, “The Heaven That They Never Knew,” and our SF reprint is “Parables of Infinity,” by Robert Reed.

The nonfiction team has brought us spotlight interviews with our authors and some reviews of terrific new books. Our ebook readers will get a sneak peak of Maurice Broaddus’s new novel, Sweep of Stars.

It’s another terrific issue, and we hope you enjoy it!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Joseph Adams is the series editor of Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy and is the bestselling editor of more than thirty anthologies, including Wastelands and The Living Dead. Recent books include A People’s Future of the United States, Wastelands: The New Apocalypse, and the three volumes of The Dystopia Triptych. Called “the reigning king of the anthology world” by Barnes & Noble, John is a two-time winner of the Hugo Award (for which he has been a finalist twelve times) and an eight-time World Fantasy Award finalist. John is also the editor and publisher of Lightspeed and is the publisher of its sister-magazines, Fantasy and Nightmare. For five years, he ran the John Joseph Adams Books novel imprint for Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Find him online at johnjosephadams.com and @johnjosephadams.

The Heaven That They Never Knew

Merc Fenn Wolfmoor | 896 words

Ginger clings to the skin of Heaven, wrapped in deep, cold vacuum. She’s a speck in the void and her breath trembles inside her helmet. No sound in space. So she breathes. She has to stay grounded, keep her thoughts from shaking and drifting to hostile sensors.

Heaven’s skin is a smooth, shimmering membrane enclosing the angelships. Heaven: a bubble the size of a small moon, seeded with egg-like metallic beings that chew and swallow and reap. Locusts with a taste for spirits; nothing holy in those devourers.

Anger jitters in her. Ginger focuses on the chill of her skin, her suit systems keeping her only warm enough to function. The numbness helps.

The translucent membrane noses at her hands and feet as she crawls onward. Little ripples that spiral deep, inverted stones-thrown-into-water. Command isn’t certain the skin itself is alive or has synaptic structures that allow it to react and gather data. She doesn’t look too closely at the inside of Heaven, at the trillions of sedan-sized angelships. Looking means she’ll think. Thoughts unconfined too soon will make her lose this fight for survival.

She’s seen the footage. Everyone has. Heaven has floated across lightyears, world to world, slitting its own belly and birthing a locust horde to strip fertile planets bare of life. Artificials are the only survivors . . . in a sense. Android minds corrupted beyond salvation, bodies somewhat intact.

It was a first gen facilitator bot that recorded the harvest and survived to bring the information to Command as a warning. The bot’s name was GB-721. It self-destructed once the data was in biological hands.

Heaven hovers in a holding pattern at the cusp of human space. The solar system spreads out in a feast of worlds and moons: colonies speckled like daubs of frosting in a meandering line towards the cupcake Earth.

Ginger crawls. She’s nearly at the apex of Heaven. It’s taken her seventeen days, six hours, and twenty-four minutes so far. From the shuttle, now cold and drifting, to the risky space-jump to Heaven’s skin itself. As much of her body as possible was replaced with cybernetics to let her live out here. Only her mind remains untouched by technology.

She tilts her head back, unable to see anything but the arc of deep space. Heaven glows bright, a thrumming sphere of energy and hunger. Ginger wraps her thoughts in serenity. It took her three years of focused meditation to prepare herself for this.

Heaven is in no hurry to eat the universe. When there are no more worlds, will it go dark? Or simply wait until evolution reseeds husks and the perpetual cycle resumes?

Under her hands, the membrane shivers. Ginger stills. Her thoughts are dangerously loud: the edge of fear, the tint of rage. No. Calm. She must be as empty as the void tucked about her. She empties her mind, swallowing in only blankness.

Calm. Nothingness.

The skin smooths and resumes its normal haptic buzz at her touch. She’s nearly to the top.

The recording GB-721 brought to Earth made three scientists and four technicians commit suicide after watching it. Four years of careful, limited exposure by a team of engineers passed before anyone could decipher the images, the sounds, the warning.

Ginger was still a small child. Her mother stopped taking her to church when news broke about Heaven’s approach. “I hate that name,” Mom said, again and again. “It’s wrong.”

“Why?” child-Ginger asked.

“Heaven is supposed to be beautiful,” Mom said.

It is, though. Unfathomable, horrific, unspeakably beautiful.

Ginger breathes.

If the angelships hear her, she’ll die. Yes. So will everyone else, because Heaven will know. Surprise is the only weapon humans have.

• • • •

Her best friend grew up to become the scientist who finally cracked the last mystery of GB-721’s message. Ariel sacrificed her health and her mind to the reveal.

“It’s thought,” Ariel gasped. Ginger sat by her bedside in Command’s hospice. “Heaven feasts on the spaces between our synapses, on a subatomic level there’s connective tissue we don’t understand.” A rattling breath. “All life is . . . thought . . .”

Ariel died.

Ginger set out to become the thought that would topple Heaven.

• • • •

She’s almost there.

At the seam, where Heaven opens its belly. A flap she can slip inside. The skin ripples faster. The angelships’ wings flutter. She’s looking into Heaven, the eternal pit of hunger.

Ginger activates her suit’s end-game routine. Heat floods her body and she launches herself the last kilometer towards the flap. The angelships rustle; their round, lamprey-like maws spiral open.

Ariel!

The thought cracks like the splitting of a new universe. Heaven roils, the membrane peeling back like lips over an endless, unsated mouth. Ginger hurtles herself into Heaven’s throat. Light flares, burning out her eyes through her helmet. Pain is insignificant.

Wrath, destruction, deplorable words unspoken since time immemorial. Ginger has them all laced through her mind. She plunges down through the angelships, letting her thoughts rip Heaven asunder.

She is poison, she is decay, she is the end.

GB-721!

If she succeeds, Heaven will become a husk.

Mama!

Worlds will live.

Ariel!

All the thoughts of humanity are distilled into weaponized kernels that explode in her head. She falls through Heaven, burning the devourer into ash in the light.

It’s beautiful.

©2022 by Merc Fenn Wolfmoor.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Merc Fenn Wolfmoor is a queer non-binary writer from Minnesota, where they live with their two cats. Merc is the author of the short story collections So You Want to Be A Robot (2017) and Friends For Robots (2021), and the novella The Wolf Among the Wild Hunt. They have had short stories published in such fine venues as Lightspeed, Fireside, Nightmare, Apex, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Escape Pod, Uncanny, and more. Visit their website: mercfennwolfmoor.com or follow them on Twitter @Merc_Wolfmoor.

An Exegesis of the Socioreligious Ramifications of the Collection of Peribi

Daniel David Froid | 7275 words

6.

One day when all of humanity is gone and the old Earth rolls through the dark all alone, a day will come when it is chanced upon by some intrepid visitors from another, more respectable planet—a planet whose denizens did not see fit to destroy themselves as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. Those visitors will descend upon the steaming hot void and may ask themselves, may ask each other, what happened. They will roam across the deep and, no doubt very soon in their journey, will discover what they will take to be obvious signs of recent habitation: our ruined homes, our benighted cities, our landfills. Vast and heaving with our brightly colored waste, those sites now play the hosts to nothing more lively than bacteria, which will surely flourish in our blasted wake.

But these visitors will no doubt notice, if they spend much time at all excavating the waste, certain objects that seem to thrive—that teem amid the flotsam and jetsam of all those foregone lives. Residing in places of honor in all those homes whose owners have long vanished, this plastic multitude may take the visitors by surprise. The visitors will meet the dull gazes of small, squat plastic bodies in mysterious shapes, and they will come to numerous conclusions. Indeed, their scholars will reap a bountiful harvest; it seems very likely that talk will never cease on the visitors’ own home planet of the empty, hot globe and its plastic totems. These totems must have been more numerous by far than the dominant species ever was, and that species seemed to hold them in such regard that they allowed the totems everywhere, in landfills and in houses, too. They produced them in far greater abundance than they knew what to do with.

And so those alien visitors will wonder: What variety of devotion did the members of this planet hold for those things, what species of love? What rituals did they perform with them, what meanings did those figures hold? If the visitors are sufficiently canny and persistent, it is possible that they might unearth records—if records remain—that will tell them all they wish to know; they may indeed uncover the tragic history of the Peribi. And that history may very well look something like this.

5.

Well, here we are at the sorry end.

There are two of them, locked in combat, and to the victor go the spoils. The prize is a small orange object, no more than three inches tall, a mere trinket, a worthless hunk of plastic, decades past plastic’s production. The wells have run dry, as everything has run dry. And as to the question of why, it seems that one of them has it, and the other one wants it, and, though little remains to be fought over, still one wishes to acquire that which does remain. Perhaps the need to assert one’s dominance shall never cease.

These peculiar totems, remnants of a dead world, are piled up in landfills, and they stand in such homes as are left, and such people as are left regard them with a respect that sometimes only borders on devotion and, then again, sometimes ventures fully into that strange country. Little lares, they do offer some succor or solace. It is rather simple: they have become what they are because they remain. There are so many of them, they are quite easy to find, and when one finds it one picks it up and keeps it, cherishes it.

In a perfect world—or so I have heard—one would have need of neither art nor faith: the blank wall in its platonic form would presumably suffice, and so too would the bracing desolation of the sky’s empty vault. In this world, an imperfect one, art and idols are catch as catch can. Fill the gap, cover the wall, do whatever you need to go on, for you must go on. And squabbles emerge over land, food, and trinkets. Sometimes, anger is all that is left. It’s a sad and rapid end, and one wonders how different it is from the beginning. In those long-ago days were combatants likewise locked in such firm and passionate and lusty embraces, and were the objects of their battles equally potent and equally daft?

This brings us back to the battle. A fire burns behind the fighters. It is night, and the flame casts the sole illumination. One lands a punch on the other, square in the face, and the other staggers and falls. The victor retrieves the piece of plastic, shaped with its bloom of fungal petals like a variety of mushroom once known as maitake, hen of the wood. And then the victor leaves for home.

In the night, the loser will seek out the victor. He will retrieve the piece of plastic and toss it into the fire in rage. And for good measure he will end the victor’s life and toss the body on the flame. He will stand before the pyre and watch the corpse burn. He will encounter the scent of cooking meat and realize he enjoys it. That fact, the fact of the meat, may unsettle him. His own life will end soon after. All too rapidly the lights will be extinguished, and the darkness will once more cover the face of the deep.

4.

But that night will come toward the end. Let us peer into the heyday of the Peribi. On a night long before that one, in a world that has not yet become what it will be—a world that teeters on that perilous edge—the Peribi thrive, as they have done for decades. Long past their entrée into the world, they have largely aged into emblems of nostalgia, sometimes ironic and sometimes sentimental; for some, they even seem like metonyms for childhood itself, as though one could get no closer to the thing itself and all its attendant emotions, than by clutching one or the other of them in one’s hands and sinking into an intoxicating reverie of nostalgia.

On the day in question, someone sits down at the computer. His rooms are cold and quiet when he gets there. He has just left work and now has come home. Quickly, he heats up a can of soup for supper and pours the hot liquid into a bowl. He takes the bowl to his table, where his open computer screen waits for him. He’s received an email, which he has been expecting. Here is what it says:

Congratulations!

You’re officially a Fan of Marnie on Fangaea!

You are scheduled to pay $5.00 per month, and your next payment will be charged on March 1, 2021.

Visit Marnie’s Fangaea.

View and edit your profile here. Read our terms and conditions here.

Marnie, whose occupation and fame cannot be specified further than by the nebulous word personality, though she sometimes also identifies as a designer, is one of many whose fame is identical with her persistent usage of social media platforms, as frequently reckless as it is tirelessly calculated. (In actuality, she is qualified in the preparation of tax returns, and her social media feed is sprinkled with jokes about what she sees as the inept and humorous behaviors of the senior citizens who form the majority of her clientele and who would probably be shocked to read such casually cruel mockery of themselves.) One might well ask why her digital doings—the contents of her meals as well as her thoughts, of her shopping expeditions as well as her dreams—are worth one’s attention and care. One cares because they, those contents, are there, and they are abundant. In these days, the Peribi furnish ample material for an entire ecosystem in which personalities such as Marnie flourish. Marnie’s Fangaea account, which allows her to offer inexpensive subscriptions to her fans in exchange for regular content, furnishes those fans with private videos of herself, accompanied by short-form essays on various topics. In theory, Marnie offers lessons in costume-craft, but these lessons are sparse in comparison to the more freeform videos and essays on such topics as she chooses, most of which are Peribi-themed. Our someone has ponied up the cost, has eagerly agreed to the terms. He remains at the computer, slurping canned soup, and clicks onward to Marnie’s profile. There he continues to read:

GREETINGS, FRIENDOS!

Marnie here. Currently, I’m kicking back in bed with the doggo with a nice hot cup of tea. I’m so excited to welcome all my Fans to my Fangaea page! With your support, I’m going to be able to deliver all the amazing content you love directly to your faceholes, whenever and wherever you want it!

Time for some #realtalk, friendos: I need this support. I’m working to make the best videos possible for everyone, and Fangaea is going to allow me to make them more often and with better production values! What that really means is, with enough help, I can quit my day job. Five hours in, and I already have over two hundred Fans, so things are looking good on Planet Marnie.

Today I just wanted to introduce you to a super special feature I’m saving for Fangaea. This one is going to be exclusive to my #fangaeafriendos, so consider yourselves pretty forking lucky.

Each week, I’m going to make a video themed around a Peribi. I’m going to mix it up to keep things fresh, but here’s what I’m thinking: sometimes, I might do a makeup tutorial, to show you how to make your face look like one of the Peribi. Sometimes, I might dress up the doggo in a cute lil Peribi costume. And I’ll include costume tutorials, because we have to keep things educational up in here!

Also, just so you know, I’m probably going to stick to the original forty-eight, at least for now, because I’m old school like that. Sometimes I might even stream the video game. I’ll set up some polls so y’all can help me pick.

Our observer watches the video and clicks onward. This will become a fixture of his, and not just his, lonely evenings: the conversations with fans, the polls, the videos of Marnie wearing makeup or of herself or her dog wearing handmade costumes, the videos of her fumbling her way through an illegal emulation of a decades-old video game. The observers will chatter and praise and question and celebrate this object of their collective fixation. Through her, they will once more enjoy their love of the Peribi, will rekindle it, like a romance. And they will pay her to enable this for them all.

Yes, they will watch the videos. Here her dog is dressed as a mushroom. He lies on the floor, immobile. He is napping in costume, and she films him for the length of five minutes. Her fans titter at the almost poignant dullness of the maitake-canine hybrid. Here she gives her fans a tutorial: how to apply makeup to their faces in order to evoke the insectoid visage of a mayfly and to assemble gauzy wings for a costume. Here she wears the four wings and eight additional eyes of (it must be) an angel. She spreads her arms wide in a posture of authority. She speaks with the voice of this guardian Peribi, the one whom, it is said, watches over them all, the one to whom the lesser Peribi feel always a quiet, steady yearning.

In time there arrives a debacle, years into Marnie’s labor of maintaining an account on Fangaea. We can picture our someone at home, slurping another can of soup, at this or a newer kitchen table, in this or a different apartment, on another dull evening when he opens his email and watches Marnie’s latest production. Intrigued by the hazy thumbnail image, which seems to show Marnie in a darkened room, her face mostly obscured, he clicks and watches.

Marnie’s face is close to the camera. She has wrapped a scarf around her head, a crude imitation of modesty and decorum. She makes startled, frightened faces at the camera. She hunches her shoulders and mimes forward movement, as if sneaking around—she mimes before a greenscreen that displays a nondescript landscape to her viewers—until she approaches a low building. The camera cuts inside, where now the greenscreen shows dark stone walls. Next to her a small table, draped with cloth, comes into view: an altar. On the altar stand several Peribi, worn with age, their paint chipped. It is clear that she is a supplicant who has come to engage in her daily worship. She prays to the Peribi. She winks at the camera.

Our someone furrows his brow. He feels uncomfortable, unsure whether he was supposed to find this funny; he wonders, too, whether, had he found it funny, he would then be guilty of a moral infraction. But, he reasons, he did not find it funny, and he supposes that Marnie herself has committed the moral infraction and should be judged accordingly. He finds this moral reasoning perplexing, circuitous, and dull, not to mention too much effort given its cause: a stupid online video. He deletes the email and pulls up a TV comedy to stream for the rest of the evening, taking his laptop into his bedroom.

As for Marnie, she has crossed a line; she has taken one step too far. She has insulted a people and their beliefs, and her fans are outraged. What’s more, when the video is exposed to the rest of the Internet, her non-fans are even more outraged and even more at the ready to arbitrate her wrongs. She argues, in a poor and ill-considered defense, that she meant only an ironic engagement with the old anti-Peribi debates, long past; she testifies to the depth and intensity of her respect for all religions, for all peoples, citing representative members of her social circles, who may not exist. (It is true that they are her inventions.) At one point, a former colleague of hers speaks up on social media and testifies against her, citing multiple instances of past casual racism. Others dig up older posts, evidence of her gerontophobia, and cite them as further evidence of her depravity. Some of the outraged multitude recall the anti-Peribi debates, and new articles appear online, belaboring the controversy with a tedious exploration of its origin, of the claims from both sides, and its irresolution.

Some express their disgust and their having reached an end of their time with Marnie, but not all. Our someone, for instance, feels a pang of guilt, but he enjoys the videos and continues to watch them, though, it is true, with less interest. In time the guilt fades, is overridden by the greater weight of his desires. But in time, too, he finds that he no longer wishes to pay Marnie five dollars per month—sixty dollars per year—for content that no longer really appeals to him. The charm has faded. He unsubscribes.

In time, Marnie will recede from public view altogether, and another, not so different, will take her place. The Peribi are no longer so popular, anyway; we must wait some time before their charm revives again, and some canny manufacturer of toys buys the rights to manufacture and sell new versions of the same old charming plastic toys.

3.

Let us travel further into the past, before the Peribi acquired their sedimentary layers of history, of individual and collective affection. There was a day before they became innocuous, when they were new and, potentially, quite dangerous. To that end, we shall peek in on the writer Leonard Snow. Mr. Snow was a writer and activist. He wrote two books: a memoir about his religious upbringing and a subsequent, lengthy volume arguing for the complete abolishment of religion. Hounded by critics throughout his brief life as a writer, which included stalking and threats of violence, Snow vanished from history at the age of thirty-five; nothing is known of him after that time, though it is assumed that he died by unknown means. One of the more intriguing passages of his memoir centers on the Peribi. Here is what he wrote.

• • • •

A handmade poster that hung in the basement of my church has stuck in my memory for decades. The poster was at once a reminder of chaos to come and a command to commit ourselves to Jesus. It was by doing the latter that we would escape the former.

In 1999, I remember, many of us developed a foolish trepidation surrounding the oncoming new millennium. It seemed to occur to few of us that the New Millennium, or the Third Millennium, would begin on January 1, 2001; we all believed that the shift to a new initial digit, from 1999 to 2000, was the actual signifier of this brave new world. And perhaps it was, simply because we believed it was. What matters more, accuracy in timekeeping or the weight of cultural meaning? Especially in my church, whose congregation salivated at the very passing mention of eschatology, we raised a weekly clamor about what it could mean to enter the year 2000. We thought it had to do with the End: it was finally happening. Apparently God admired the roundness of the number: it made sense, seemed like sign or wonder of the modern age.

Also, the acronym Y2K became a kind of platitude among the kids in my Sunday school classes. We knew it wasn’t true but repeated it anyway that Y2K stood for “Year 2000 Kaos.” This was something like a popular joke anyway, but for the church kids—who knew nothing of the software problem to which it alluded—it acquired special meaning, another sign that the end was nigh. Few of us, too, actually knew that the K represented thousand, which would deny credence to our apocryphal acronym, and those who did know never bothered pointing out that chaos was misspelled, and that if God required the roundness of the number 2000 it would seem proper for him to have made the acronym work somehow, to have corrected the spelling of the word chaos somewhere along the way. Why would God have chosen such a patent misspelling? Was it not in his power to have made kaos the correct spelling? To point any of this out, of course, led only to further foolish questions and, anyway, would spoil the fun, because a kind of thrill intertwined with our fear. The thrill had to do with righteousness: we knew we were the chosen few. We would be safe no matter what. And, of course, we were children; apocalypse lacked real meaning for us; we simply repeated what we heard the adults say without wondering what it meant when applied to a concrete reality, that is, what might actually happen when the clock struck midnight on December 31, 1999, all of us shifted into the Year 2000, and the world changed, somehow, irrevocably, forever. We harbored only vague intimations of the world to come. When all the sinners were gone, the Earth might lay empty; but the believers, dead and alive, would have been raised up aloft, carried to Heaven, where, it was said, the streets were lined with gold and every Christian had his or her own personal mansion. All that a believer had to do was pray and wait and hope for this ending, which was also a new beginning, of eternal peace and joy with Christ the Redeemer.

Y2K lay on the horizon, and on the door of the Sunday school classroom for five- and six-year-olds hung the poster that read as follows:

Yield

2

Jesus!

On a background of green construction paper, someone had arranged the initial letters in larger yellow letters and the other, smaller capitals in orange. I thought the poster was funny, but in a way I couldn’t then explain, a way that I would have hesitated to explain: I knew that it was meant earnestly, an attempt at a joke that was both too feeble and too sincere to succeed on any level. It was a kind of camp pleasure I took in the joke then, although of course I didn’t know the word, and I knew that I could not share my pleasure.

The classroom was equally dingy, with wood-paneled walls and the same cheap bulbs that poorly lit the hall. More handmade posters hung on the walls, but what they said I cannot remember—likely platitudes, illustrations of Bible stories, attendance charts. They grew so familiar as wall decorations that I paid them no mind. That day, the children had gathered for a special session, not with our usual teacher, someone named Lynne, but a woman whom we knew as a classmate’s mother, who taught older children. And in fact the older children were there too, assembled with us in a rare joint session. We crowded around the long wooden table, perhaps two dozen of us wondering what she would say.

Her name was Sharon and she had, she told us, a special message for us that day. She looked angry, and she began immediately.

“Children, I’m here today to talk to you about some of the devil’s agents sent to Earth to hurt you,” she said. “Most of you probably know all about the Peribi. Do you all know?”

All of us nodded our heads in assent. I owned the toys, the video game, the pajamas; I watched the cartoon, had convinced my parents to buy the junk food that featured brightly colored Peribi branding and to take me to the fast-food restaurants that bundled cheaper, cruder versions of the toys with the kids’ meals. It was only last Christmas that I and my siblings had received the figures, and in the past year or so they had grown in enormous popularity, a mania to which almost everyone I knew was devoted, with a cultish and feverish zeal born of too much time on our hands and a tendency toward cathexis for which the church may have been partly responsible.

“Well,” Sharon said, “I need you all to know the truth about them. About these things that you believe are just a toy. Or just a game. Do you know what their name means?” She took a breath, looked around the room. “Peribi refers to fairies. Fairies from heathen cultures. So you may think that it’s just fun and games, because fairies are nice, sweet creatures. But believe you me, they are not. In the Bible we learn about people who have what they call familiar spirits. The Bible says: ‘Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after wizards, to be defiled by them: I am the Lord your God.’ This is in Leviticus.”

I jerked, startled by the twisting feeling in my stomach. The term Leviticus brought to mind for all of us punishment; we knew that it was one of the books of the Bible that dealt with the law and with what happens to those who disobey it. If Sharon had brought up Leviticus, she had trouble in mind.

“Regard not them that have familiar spirits! Familiar spirits are like little demons that come to live with the wicked, but they might look like pets. They look cute and cuddly but they are most certainly not. They are evil. And those wizards who have them use them to do magic, and it might look like fun, but you know that magic is evil. Peribi are evil. The toy boxes call upon you to gaze upon familiars and hunt for them and love them and use them for evil. Listen to me: These monsters are familiar spirits you capture like the wizards. And you know that magic is evil, don’t you?” She let out a sigh, as if the repetition had driven her to it. “One of the ways that the devil tries to capture us is to send things into the world that look like fun. Toys are one of his very best weapons. You see them on TV, you see them at school, and you see them at the store. And everybody else has them, so it’s something that you want yourself. And you beg your parents please and they buy ’em for you, and then the devil has you closer in his trap.

“Listen: ‘A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them.’ That’s from Leviticus too. We know from the Bible that we must not associate with those who have the familiar spirits, and we know that they must be put to death. We must stone them. Now, we won’t do that to children, don’t worry about that, but I want you to know the truth about the Peribi.” (She loved repeating the phrase, as though that one word alone bore all the evidence we needed of diabolic intent.) She took a breath and then continued, “They are evil and if you play with the devil you will get into trouble. You will be hurt. You have to be strong, and if the kids at school are telling you that that game is ‘cool,’ or ‘fun,’ or anything like that, you have to resist and tell yourself it’s not. Because it is none of those things. It is not cool and it is not fun to deal with the devil. You hear me? God will punish all who sin, especially when they know that it’s wrong. When you don’t repent of your sins you go down there when you die. You go to the lake of fire.”

Everyone in the church had the same funny way of pronouncing this phrase, this phrase from the Book of Revelation, our hearts’ home. They pronounced it as one word, with the emphasis on the same syllable: lake-o’-fire, or, LAY-cuh-fire. I heard it and nearly squeaked. It was a word that went, always, straight to my gut, made me feel hot and afraid, as though I stood in close proximity, could feel it boiling just behind or beneath me. The lake-o’-fire was hell, of course. Its geography seemed to consist only of this giant lake. I had elaborated a mental vision of a cartoonish devil, large and bloated, near-naked, with a twisted tail and scaled wings and devil horns and cloven feet, who stood within an enormous cavern, lit only by the lake that stretched forever behind him. The lake was filled with, perhaps, molten lava—or it defied the usual laws of the world, and it was fire and water both. Either way, it glowed bright orange and red, and flames shot as far as the cavern’s high ceiling. The lake was filled with the many, many sinners—thousands? millions?—who were so foolish as not to repent or with those who had never known God at all. The devil laughed and laughed as he and his demons flew about the lake and pushed the sufferers further into the lake, and there were ever more of them lining up before the great Prince of Darkness, the devil, Lucifer. The world of hell was as real to us as any other place we knew of but had never been for ourselves, as real, far-off, fundamentally unknowable, and irredeemably wicked as, say, Las Vegas.

This is all that Sharon conjured with the phrase, the lake-o’-fire. She continued to speak for a long time, about an hour, circling around the same points, and as she talked I felt my face grow red and my stomach twist in knots. I loved the Peribi dearly, and despite Sharon’s long discussion it still seemed unclear how something I equated with maximum pleasure and delight could be so bad. O, here it was, my first grappling as a child with the philosophy of hedonism. And I didn’t want to give it up, but how could I keep playing now that I knew it was evil? I would have preferred not to know, to remain blissfully ignorant. I was afraid and ashamed. She had brought up my biggest fear, likely everyone else’s as well: the fear of eternal punishment and misery in hell. I wondered then if I was not doomed, if her words had awakened me to my inevitable fate. Sharon had presented all of us with apparently obvious evidence of evil, right before us, in our very hands, and we now faced the decision to give it up. Or not. To embrace it willfully in full knowledge of sin. Or not. I felt unequal to the task. I wanted to leave because I could feel illness setting in, and, to be sure, when the session ended I smiled and said goodbyes to the extent that I was able, left, and hurried to the bathroom across the common room, where I puked up my breakfast, which had, naturally, been the highly processed pastries that had come packaged with a little round pink toy that I found especially cute, even if it would now bear in my mind the stain of the devil.

I found the strength within me then to flee and run upstairs and find my family.

My siblings were in class as well. They, too, were upset, if not physically ill as I was, and when we got home we had to tell our parents what had happened at church. We relayed Sharon’s message, as well as our fear, and begged to know if we were, as she had suggested, evil, because we liked the Peribi and because we knew that now, if not before, we could be judged to be guilty. My parents gave each other funny looks and then set to comfort us. They said no, that’s what she said but that’s her opinion, it’s just a game. It could spin out of control, it could become an obsession—that’s the word they used, I remembered it clearly, obsession—but if we just played it for fun it was not evil. They said that the monsters were not in fact demonic familiars.

We went back the next Sunday, where Lynne, the regular teacher, asked us to report on our week. She did not bring up last week’s discussion, but it sat at the back of my mind, and though I did not confess I felt that I should have done.

My interest in the toys waned; they were tainted forever, after all. Watching the cartoon, as the character shuffled through dark caves and fought other monsters with their Peribi, I began to imagine that their surroundings took on the contours of hell. After a time I couldn’t look at the toys or the game anymore, and the creatures began to populate my dreams. They lined up at the entrance of hell, just like me, but while I stood there to be consigned to my punishment they acted as Lucifer’s helpers, little henchmen who pushed and teased, who snickered and squealed at the fools who’d ruined their lives and deserved to be here. They seemed, too, to be linked to the imminent chaos. They were signs of a world on the brink of its end.

On December 31, not long after, my family huddled in the living room for a New Year’s Eve party, with our traditional meal of Swedish meatballs. All of us drank sparkling grape juice and smiled nervously at each other on the couches, despite our common and unspoken fear of what would happen the next day, on the advent of the Y2K.

Which turned out to be nothing, another day, a Saturday morning. We did nothing special, wandered the house and watched TV, perhaps played a board game. But there is one remarkable thing that occurred. At one point during our quiet evening, I left the family room, which was downstairs, to go to the bathroom. When I returned, I noticed, at the foot of the stairs, a broken Peribi toy. I didn’t know how it had got there, who had put it there, how it had broken. But to my fear-addled mind it seemed to betoken something: a sign of their wickedness, perhaps, or a sign of the descending kaos. I felt fear once more descend upon my soul.

We went to church the day after, January 2, where we tried our hardest to yield to Jesus once more. A pall of disappointment hung over the congregation, because we were ready and we knew it. All of us wanted so badly to be right, to be satisfied at the coming of the end of the world, to revel in our righteousness as the sinners were gathered up—dragged down rather—and flung into the lake, while, presumably, we ascended to heaven, to our streets of gold and mansions. That would have been preferable and instead we got life, more of it. It would go on until it didn’t, but now we didn’t know when that would be.

Yet I believed that the world had changed. Y2K had in fact occurred; for, even if the world did not appear different, it had changed nonetheless, for all of us in the congregation but perhaps for me especially. We were facing a darkening world, a world deserving of its imminent end. The world to come was here already.

2.

Despite the terror, the dread, the warnings of divine wrath, the promise of the reign of perpetual evil, the seeming similarity to heathen religions and customs, their origins as sorcerers’ playthings, the Peribi promised little but love. In fact loving companionship was one of the primary selling points of the toys.

The following advertisement appeared in children’s magazines and comic books beginning in 1998, when the initial line of Peribi toys was launched; it was also sent directly to children in a massive mail campaign encouraging them to learn more about, and ideally purchase, the Peribi.

Introducing the Peribi!

The Peri Company is proud to present Peribi, the newest toy sensation. The Peribi are fun-loving and lovable creatures who can’t wait to meet you!

From Their World . . . to Yours!

The Peribi have come from the land of fairy to be welcomed into your homes. Allow them to enter and bestow on you their unique gifts.

They are incredibly curious about what life is like on Planet Earth and are calling for all fun-loving children to show them what it’s like to be a kid. Peribi are very kind and make great listeners, so they are eager to learn all about you. They’re also ready to share their own stories! Each Peribi comes with a storybook where their new friends can find out all about them. The storybook even includes extra pages at the end for their friends—that’s YOU—to record what they discover during their own adventures with the Peribi!

Small Enough to Fit in Your Pocket . . . with a Heart That’s Larger Than Life!

Peribi are tiny: the land of fairy is much smaller than Planet Earth. But that means that they’re ready to go anywhere you want to take them.

You can take your Peribi to the park or to the pool or even to school. Show them off to your friends—they love to meet new people.

Put them in your pocket, and let your imagination be your guide!

Hunt Them All Down!

The first wave of Peribi features six distinct characters with their own personalities and histories. Every child can find one of the Peribi to call their favorite, but they love company, so the more the merrier!

Each Peribi has a unique identification number, which means that your Peribi is unlike anybody else’s. Build your very own set of special friends.

Now available at a store near you, or visit them on the web—with your parents’ permission—at www.peribiworld.net.

1.

The first line of the Peribi debuted at the New York Toy Fair in 1998. Designed by toymaker Tiffany Morley—daughter of the well-known Morley family of hoteliers—they combined, she said, exactly what the name implied: “peri,” the fairy-like creatures from Middle Eastern legend, and “chibi,” the Japanese style of diminutive caricature. “The Peribi have come from the land of fairy to be welcomed into your homes,” the first advertisement for them explained. “Allow them to enter and bestow on you their unique gifts.” Each toy was small—most of them between three and five inches high—and featured delicate limbs and disproportionally large heads and eyes. The first line featured six Peribi, all of them sculpted with a high degree of detail:

- a slim grayish-brown figure with jagged features and a threatening visage, whose skin appeared to be made of stone;

- an inquisitive salamander whose pastel features also resembled traditional clown makeup;

- a turquoise mayfly with worried eyes and fragile, ornate wings;

- a purple wyvern with a gentle, deer-like face;

- a squat transparent figure with a pig’s head and a body similar to that of a tardigrade;

- and an orange maitake-shaped fungus with no face or appendages at all.

Each toy came packaged with an extensive backstory, detailing that Peribi’s culture, local geography, religion, likes and dislikes, and friends and enemies. This material appeared in a miniature, saddle-stitched volume whose cover resembled a bejeweled, faux-antique tome.

Despite their somewhat disarming appearances, the Peribi were an immediate success. Seemingly intended as an American competitor to various other franchises featuring small, collectible fantasy creatures, the Peribi nonetheless developed their own rabid following around the globe, as well as their own unique set of critics.

Yes, the Peribi created a frenzy in that year, 1998, as well as the years to come, as parents showed up at the store in droves to buy them for their children, waiting in line for the release of new shipments and even engaging in public fisticuffs in order to lay their claims on particular specialized Peribi. Each Peribi bore a number, and some appeared in rare variant color schemes, likewise driving collectors’ mania. (A sparkling variant of the porcine Peribi was among the most popular and the apparent cause of at least three reported altercations around Christmas 1998.) Toward the end of the year, a second wave of six additional Peribi debuted, just in time for parents’ holiday shopping. The following year, a larger third and then an even larger fourth wave debuted—consisting of twelve and eighteen Peribi, respectively—along with an animated television series, a video game, several books, and miscellaneous tie-in merchandise, which included foodstuffs, clothing, blankets, and stationery, among other things. Children wore Peribi costumes for Halloween. They traded or hoarded their favorites. Adults discreetly purchased them and set them aside, hoping the toys would one day accrue enough value that they could sell them off and earn a nest egg. (This did not happen.) Children and adults alike poured hours of time into watching the series and playing the video game. Though many such toy franchises reached early apexes and continued to cater to increasingly small groups of dedicated fans, the Peribi thrived for decades. In all, nearly seven hundred distinct varieties of Peribi were released.

As for Tiffany Morley, she became a multimillionaire. Before the development of the Peribi, she had worked in toy design for about a decade, producing licensed toys for popular brands. But she founded her own firm, the Peri Company, to produce the Peribi. The Peribi made her name and her fortune, which was already considerable. Yet she refused all publicity. She appeared to promote their debut in 1998, and, after that, never gave a single interview or uttered even a single public comment on the Peribi, either their design or their popularity or the controversy that soon came to surround them. The Peri Company frequently received requests for comments, especially in those early years and in response to the later controversy, but only its publicity associates ever responded, and their comments tended to be equivocal and evasive. At the same time, her choices as Chief Executive Officer and Chief Creative Officer of the Company would seem to suggest no small measure of spite. For instance, as time went on, her designs for the Peribi became increasingly grotesque, often drawing obvious inspiration from works of demonology; likewise, that she chose to cap the number of Peribi at six hundred and sixty-six seems to indicate a desire to taunt her most vocal critics, for whom that number, the number of the beast, presented irrefutable proof of their suspicions; but of course, all associated with the Peri Company insisted it was nothing more than coincidence.

The controversy, which started as the kind of minor fuss that might have been, and probably was, anticipated by the Peri Company or at least by Tiffany herself, centered on the Peribi’s suitability and the devotion they tended to inspire. The critics approached the subject from multiple angles, identifying themselves, and drawing from their respective areas of expertise, as concerned parents, church leaders, educators, child psychologists, and media critics, who argued for various reasons that the Peribi’s influence on children should be feared. In particular, many religiously inclined critics focused on their status as idols. As early as the year of their debut Sunday school teachers and pastors passed along lessons to children warning them against these familiar spirits, agents of the devil who would leech all the attention and love they might better offer elsewhere (ideally to God). Soon critics came, too, to dwell on the etymology of the word peri, perhaps most familiar to Western audiences (if familiar at all) from translations of the One Thousand and One Nights. A peri or pari, from the Persian, is a tiny creature, typically depicted with wings and known for its stunning beauty, which is neither essentially good nor essentially bad but a kind of mischievous spirit—a fairy; in some Muslim traditions they have been elevated into benevolent divine beings. In 1998, concern was muted but palpable; several years later, after 9/11 and escalating Islamophobia, many of the Peribi’s critics grew more vocal about what they saw as the dangerous provenance of the creatures, their roles as heathen idols. Still, such criticism rarely stuck except with particular extremist groups. The Peribi thrived.

0.

Some of those involved with the Peribi’s popularity, the backlash, their long cultural lifespan, may well have lived long enough to mark the onset of multiple apocalypses. Some may have believed that they were quite right to fear the Peribi, those strange totems, struck by a curious sense of satisfaction as they saw their eschatological fantasies confirmed. To most the connection, naturally, would never have crossed their minds. One wonders what Tiffany Morley made of the end of the world, if she lived long enough to see it.

When the world turns to wasteland and we uncover one or the other of them in a heap of trash somewhere, what will we think? Should we cast them off and pray to God for safety or salvation? Should we clutch one or another to our chests, cradling it as they might a pet or child? Might we even say a prayer in hope that some tiny plastic fairy, having emerged from another world to visit ours, might provide some obscure assistance, might dole out some measure of care, before that mysterious being returns to its own far-off world, blessedly sheltered from our world as it falls?

©2022 by Daniel David Froid.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daniel David Froid is a scholar, educator, and writer of strange stories who lives in Indiana. His scholarly research focuses on devils in eighteenth-century British literature, and his fiction appears in Ligeia, Coffin Bell, and Weird Horror. He teaches at Purdue University.

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

Parables of Infinity

Robert Reed | 5445 words

There were better workers aboard the Great Ship. Virtuous entities with proven resumes reaching back across the aeons. But the timetable was inflexible, the circumstances brutal. Seventeen hours, six minutes, and two breaths. The job had to be completed within that impossible span, beginning now. Now. The client was among the weakest citizens of the galaxy, reasonably healthy one moment, and in the next, passing out of life. What wasn’t a home and wasn’t a shell had to be rebuilt from scratch. If the client perished, nobody was paid. But the respectable guilds would take too much time. The Avenue of Tools. That’s who the experienced contractor approached when trying to dodge the bureaucracies. Speaking through private channels, he could offer extraordinary pay for brutal, brief work. “But only for those who get here first, and I mean immediately.”

Then, one final enticement.

“And no background checks,” the contractor promised.

The Avenue looked more like a clogged artery than any traditional street, and the “Tools” portion of the name was a stubborn relic of intentionally clumsy translations. Every resident was a devised organism that lived against the walls, stacked high on its neighbors and waiting for work. Many were AIs, yes. But there were also organics drawn by various means, most sporting rugged exoskeletons and interchangeable limbs. According to galactic law and the ruling captains, every “tool” was emancipated. All were competent, purpose-capable individuals. But like stone hammers and old plasma drills, they shared one sorry feature: each had been discarded by a previous owner.

The Great Ship was a vast machine, and the Avenue wasn’t particularly close. But seven tools boarded slam-caps and made the journey. All were hired immediately, but finding more than enough hands, the contractor modified his earlier promise. Criminal histories were examined. One member of the team was subsequently released and arrested. The remaining six received wetware educations, and the new team plunged into the frantic work. Which has zero bearing on the story. With two breaths to spare, the project was finished and finished successfully. Competence never makes for an interesting tale. Tools appreciated that even more than humans did. But of course competence should always be welcomed with a glad heart, and that’s why the contractor was humming while he paid his crew.

“Never seen an odder job,” he mentioned.

The fresh funds were eagerly consumed by those ex-employees. Five offered agreeable, “Thank yous,” and then five of them rushed off.

But the quiet tool preferred to linger.

She was female by choice or design, or maybe only by chance. Her visible biography reached back ten million years, which wasn’t particularly remarkable. Well-designed AIs could yank out their own cognitive centers, replacing the weakest for better and then shifting their identities into fresh neurons. But today’s background check showed several names riding the entity, and most interesting, the oldest name was based on a language extinct for millions of years.

Offering that old name, the contractor repeated his thanks.

Then the tool said, “I’ve been swallowed by many assignments far more peculiar than this, sir.”

Neither of them had pressing engagements. The contractor sat on the edge of a cultivation chamber, and knowing how to prompt machinery, he said, “Let me judge what’s peculiar.”

The tool was large when she was naked, and she was dressed and gigantic now. The carapace was Mandelbrot-inspired, made from lovely diamond and a lovelier iron, and it was punctured in dozens of places. Where needed, arms and legs had been added. What wasn’t a mouth produced words, and what couldn’t be confused for eyes were staring at the human who demanded to be impressed. What did she know about this man? Quite a lot, she felt. Her research as well as a dedicated sieving of social noises proved that this compilation of meat and bioceramics was born on the Great Ship, and more importantly, he was barely a thousand years old. Which made him innocent and smug. Humans often felt they were blessed, and with reason: their young species owned the largest, most impressive starship ever constructed. And that’s why the tool picked the story sure to leave her audience astonished.

“I’m older than you realize,” she began.

“I see ten million years.”

“I’m far older than that, sir.”

The human had a perfectly reasonable face, ageless but holding the jittery energies common to recently born boys. Except there were occasions, like now, when the man seemed more complicated than a coy little sack of meat. In the eyes, mostly. When those wet white and blue eyes looked at her, she discovered a focused intensity that she had never witnessed in any other contractor.

The tool’s longest limb reached toward his patient face and then reached farther. What served as toes gripped the cultivation chamber, first by a long helve and then a sealed extrusion valve. The just-completed project had demanded several thousand kilos of an exceptional grade of hyperfiber. Their former client was now sleeping safe inside the universe’s finest armor. Unless, of course, a weapons-grade plasma torch arrived, or a black hole decided to gut the new home.

The tool said, “My first assignment,” and paused.

The human offered silence. Nothing else.

“Was to cultivate hyperfiber,” she continued. “That’s the only reason I was built. And if I have a genius, hyperfiber is it.”

The man nodded, feet absently tapping the granite path.

“I was working on a rather larger scale than this,” she continued, invoking that respectable technique of misdirecting the audience’s imagination.

“More than ten million years ago,” said the man.

“Yes.”

A smile emerged, and in his eyes, suspicion.

“This starship of yours,” she said.

Wet eyes grew larger. “It isn’t mine.”

“Yes, agreed. But human, tell me this: have you ever wondered how this marvel was built?”

Larger than worlds, the Great Ship was discovered outside the Milky Way. A cold, lifeless derelict racing at one-third light speed, it might be billions of years old, implying that it was cobbled together in some distant portion of a much younger universe.

“I’ve never asked myself how,” said the man. Then laughter emerged with the mocking words. “Not once. Not ever. No.”

“Well, I know how,” she said.

The laughter grew louder and angrier. Or happier. She was beginning to realize that this was a rather difficult creature to disassemble.

“Because you helped build the Ship,” he guessed.

Every limb pointed at their surroundings. “If my hands and feet had done any piece of this, I would remember. And I don’t have those recollections.”

“Too bad,” he said.

“I’m talking about my first job and a hundred thousand years of labor,” she said. “You see, my makers intended to build their own Great Ship. Long before humans existed. Ages before anyone realized that this kind of wonder already existed.”

“How long ago?”

“Ninety-three million years,” she said.

The human took a moment to frame his answer.

“Bullshit,” he said.

She offered her best contemptuous laugh.

Then he said, “I’m not a student of anything. But I don’t remember any history where any species was stupid enough to attempt construction on this scale.”

“Agreed,” she said. “Inside this galaxy.”

Big eyes grew small, the mouth clenched tight as could be.

“Do you want to hear my story, or don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes to both,” the human said. “I do, and I don’t. So you tell it, and let’s both discover what I think.”

• • • •

The contractor wasn’t ancient, certainly not compared to the Great Ship or this well-traveled tool. But he was quite a lot older than he appeared to be. His born name was Pamir and he was an important captain serving the Great Ship, but certain troubles caused him to leave that life and the greatest profession. Hiding ever since, he had worn a wild variety of names and jobs, lives and passions. One of the galaxy’s great experts in wearing carefully contrived life stories, he earned what he could to thrive, and that included hoarding secret funds and prebuilt lives ready for the moment his present lies began to crumble.

Pamir leaned back, looking like a man who had nowhere else to be.

“I was built near the center of a different galaxy,” the tool began. “A satellite galaxy, but not to your Milky Way. No, this was a little sister to what you call Andromeda. My galaxy’s stars were predominantly ancient, metal-poor and unsuited for life. But a later bloom of young stars produced rock worlds and metal worlds, and biologies, and a few lasting civilizations.”

Remaining in character, the contractor offered a shrug and one vaguely interested gaze. But the genuine Pamir was interested enough to create a complete list of candidates, rating the likelihood of each while throwing none aside.

“I was born above a hot world,” the tool reported. “An almost nameless world of iron and baked rock orbiting a red dwarf sun. There was nothing remarkable about that solar system, except that the sun and its dozen planets weren’t native to my galaxy. Large events inside Andromeda had thrown them free. As a consequence, these interlopers were blessed with enormous momentum. And even better, their future course would carry them close to a massive local star and its black hole companion. Tailoring that flyby was possible. Barely. My makers had already spent thousands of years abusing the red dwarf. They struck its face with lasers, sank antimatter charges into its body. Towering flares rose up from the sun, punching the same piece of the sky, slowly changing the solar system’s trajectory.”

“To capture the interlopers,” the human said.

“And add to one body’s velocity, yes. One-eleventh the speed of light. That was the goal. Not as swift as your vessel, no. But it was a smaller galaxy, and our ship would wear engines large enough to let it maneuver. Shrouded in a hyperfiber envelope, that machine would drop close to suns and black holes, repeatedly surviving fire and gravity, always racing towards the next suitable target.”

The tool paused, for dramatic purposes, or perhaps to let her audience respond.

“‘The next suitable target,’” the human repeated.

“Yes.”

“Just what were you building out there?”

“That should be self-evident,” she said. “A warship. Why else encase the world inside a thousand kilometers of high-grade hyperfiber? Armor is the most trusted line of defense in any weapon. Save for invisibility, of course.”

“Of course,” said the invisible man.

“It’s obvious that this Great Ship was designed to serve as someone’s flagship,” she said. “How can you think anything else? And I’ll admit that my ship would never be as quick or grand, and yours is the far older vessel, and everything around us is lovely and mysterious, and splendid too. But your ship is also far less massive than mine. Forty percent less, which places the name ‘Great’ into question.”

Pamir laughed. He laughed at the imagery and at the boast, and in secret, he weighed the words as well as the ideas behind them.

“I was one of an army,” the tool continued. “One among billions. I was produced by a factory that had already consumed much of the sun’s thin comet belt. Each one of my sisters was a simple and pure, easily duplicated device. Our mission demanded simplicity. My manufactured mind had passions, but those passions were narrowed to one subject: the nature of hyperfiber in all of its glories. And as I was born, as the first breath of electricity passed through me, my soul was filled with the image of a gray ocean of uncured hyperfiber spread across a world that wouldn’t earn its final name until it was officially launched.”

She offered another dramatic pause.

Pamir wasn’t laughing. Even a civilian contractor with zero interest in far galaxies would be intrigued with this story, and that’s why he could afford to show his feelings. Curiosity, doubt. A thousand pragmatic considerations colliding with one mighty beast of a question.

Why bother with this project?

He cleared his throat, started to laugh and then stopped himself. A thin smile turned scornful as he pointed out, “Some idiot had to pay for this.”

There was no point in denying that statement.

Or for that matter, agreeing with it. Because when facts were obvious, the tool saw zero reason to respond.

Contractors and captains led similar lives. Goals had to be fulfilled, timetables ruled, and nothing but small problems and giant conundrums stood between them and success.

“But what kind of money-rich idiot? That’s the first question.” Pamir dropped a hand on the cultivation chamber. “Obviously, an advanced society. But even more important, this kind of project demands a social biology, and a highly cooperative one. If not out-and-out authoritarian. Organic or mechanical. I can see either way working, or a marriage between the two. But with a million-year outlook, which excludes almost every species I know. Particularly humans.”

With the press of a thumb, he opened a minor valve, and the last surge of pressure brought out a bright gray bubble of uncured, left-behind hyperfiber.

“Yogurt,” Pamir said.

“A food,” said the tool.

“Built from billions of microbes doing only what nature tells them to do. Which is what you were. Are. One bacterium working on the great yogurt.”

Laughing, she revealed a delightfully girlish voice.

Pamir continued. “Mass-produced machines, self-contained and self-repairing. That’s how you hide some of the costs. Worlds are rebuilt every minute with that kind of technology. But the smallest tool still has to drink power, and a single red dwarf star isn’t much of a nipple. Reactors linked in a nearby grid. That’s what I’d do. Which means hydrogen by the gigaton, and that means dismantling one or more gas giant worlds. Which must have been available inside the same solar system, sure. But that means you aren’t just rebuilding one world. You’re dismantling another much bigger body, which is a fresh goliath-styled project requiring machine armies and more local reactors. And now we’ve entered the realm where the yogurt model collapses under its own success.”

“And why is that?”

“You’re not a bacterium,” he offered. “A fleck of your skin is ten billion times more sophisticated than an ocean of yogurt. And worst still, you possess a full mind. A designed, standardized brain, but capable of learning and growing. You claim you were born with a passion for hyperfiber. But passion fades. Or worse, the target of your love shifts. Ten thousand years of determined labor, but there comes that treacherous nanosecond when you discover doubt, and after another ten thousand years of reflection and increasingly boring labor, you suddenly have to act on some long-ago inspiration.”

“And I’ll do what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Imagination isn’t my strength.”

She seemed to accept that judgment.

“I’m thinking like a contractor,” he said. “Keeping tight control over billions of powerful workers. That requires AI watchdogs and relentless purges of bad ideas. I’ve overheard enough history to appreciate the troubles. Hive-mind societies are surprisingly frail. That abiding faith in rules . . . that’s a damning strength. Some piece of the group will go mad, or lose focus, or fall behind in the work until it’s obvious that the goals won’t be reached and it’s best to do anything else, including nothing.”

She said nothing.

Pamir shrugged. “If I was painting the budget? The project’s second biggest expense would be internal security.”

“And the largest expense?”

“External security. Of course.” In a sloppy fashion, the hyperfiber bubble had cured. Pamir took hold of the gray ball, finger and thumb lifting it free from the valve, twirling it close to his eyes. “You’re building a warship. And because of the timescales and the very public nature of your work—a flaring star and an obvious trajectory, for example—you can’t hide what you’re doing. Your ultimate goals are going to be very visible. You’re building a warship to conquer the galaxy. There would be no other explanation for your frantic efforts. But when every other species and wise player notices this, even eternal enemies are going to make alliances. Even the most passive species are going to work like maniacs, trying to bring disaster to your scheme. And that’s why the construction site will have be armored and weaponized and filtered and controlled. A militarized sphere stretching out for tens of light-years. And now we’ve reached a level of expense that would bankrupt any civilization likely to arise in what still sounds like a small oxbow of a galaxy.”

The tool offered a long silence, and then, one question.

“What if bankruptcy was just another calculation?”

Pamir grinned, mulling over the possibilities.

“No second choices,” she said. “The empire abandons every inhabited world, colony and farflung base. Its entire population coalesces around that giant iron world and its dim sun and the flares and those trillion tools that needed to be managed with absolute precision. And building the hull is just one job. The world beneath has to be hollowed out, making ready for crews and sleeping fleets. My great ship needs rockets worthy of its mass, and future weapon systems have to be designed and deployed. AI banks are built for no reason other than to wage every war to come, in their minds. And as you say, while all of that happens, my masters are battling an entire galaxy of united enemies.”

She paused.

Pamir let the silence work on both of them. Or at least on him. Then he gave up, saying, “One of your solutions went wrong. I’m betting.”

“Are you offering a wager?”

“Never.”

“A wise inaction,” she said. “Because every problem was recognized before the start. Every solution worked well enough. There were no rebellions of will, no invasion of enemies. The venture should have been a wild success. In another few million years, my tool makers and myself, and my children, if I had any, would have embraced that entire realm of stars and worlds, time and promise.”

“Something else went wrong,” Pamir guessed.

Silence.

“Tell me,” he said. “Where did the dream lead?”

What weren’t toes reached for his hand, claiming that bright gray bubble.

“This is what went wrong,” she said.

“The hyperfiber?”

A long, painful sound emerged. Emotional, incoherent, purely miserable. Then the toes released the prize. And since the bubble was thin beyond thin, and because nothing but vacuum was inside it, the bubble shot into the air, rising out of reach and out of sight, neither of them watching after it.

• • • •

The universe was built on weakness. Vacuum was one kind of weakness, vast and cold. Stars were feeble piles of sloppy fire. Atoms themselves were never more than temporary alliances between disloyal parts. The hardest object always broke, and every fine idea had to suffer until it died.

These were the first lessons fed to the tool, and they were learned long before the assembly line tossed her into the ranks.

Strength was possible, but only in special circumstances, and the tool was taught how genuine, enduring strength depended on cheating the universe. Not once, but constantly. Relentlessly. Black holes were cheats, and that’s why tiny black holes were valuable for cutting and twisting lesser kinds of matter. Time was another cheat. Slice time thinly enough and the unlikely became real, including moments where entropy ran backwards. And there was a third cheat involving pure atoms and particles pretending to be atoms that aligned in quasi-crystal patterns—a maze of bonds and vibrations that might look like polished pale metal but actually resembled nothing normal. That was hyperfiber. That was the reason for her existence and her only love. She was born to do nothing but prepare lakes of pure hyperfiber that were carefully cured, drop by lustrous drop, until the lake was ready to be poured across the lovely, half-built warship.

At its worst, cheap hyperfiber was stronger than diamond and equal to bioceramics. But there was one last cheat to employ. No patch of hyperfiber existed alone. Those magical bonds weren’t just here, but they also reached into parallel universes, into mirrors of themselves. Kick a shard of weak, low-grade fiber, and you were kicking ten million other shards at the same time. That’s why the substance didn’t break, melt or scream. And the higher grades were far more promiscuous. Billions of mirror universes shared power and stubbornness with one another, and that’s what a great warship needed for its armor, and nothing else mattered for the first thousand centuries of her enormously important life.

“Every resource was used or set aside to be used later,” she told the human. “The tool makers contrived and then spent every kind of currency. They stripped their home worlds of resources before converging around us, and they built factories and elaborate plans and fortifications that looked gigantic to every enemy and every former friend. Nothing mattered but finishing our great ship, on schedule and without flaw. And I was fortunate enough to have been swallowed by this venture. So consumed by the task that I never bothered imagining what would happen afterwards. To the galaxy. To myself. Even to the vessel whose hull belonged as much to me as to anyone. All that mattered was the next meter of fresh armor lying tight over every other strong layer.”

Pamir watched, listened. And he nodded, understanding quite a lot more than his companion could have guessed.

Ten hands and feet moved, drawing round shapes in the air. “Mistakes were inevitable. Pico-crevices and tainted batches, mostly. I made those mistakes, and whenever I noticed flaws, I confessed. Sometimes others found my mistakes, and I confessed again. Just as my sisters welcomed the blame when I uncovered their blunders. That was our nature. That is the necessary attitude you cling to when you have considerable work and limited time, and particularly when your mistakes are being buried deeper and deeper inside the growing hull. We had to define the flaws early, and corrections were made, and sometimes the corrections were intricate and expensive . . . and this is where we doomed ourselves.”

She paused.

Pamir watched the limbs freeze, and when the silence seemed too thick, he made a guess.

“You let small mistakes stand.”

“No.” She said it instantly, and the word was important enough to repeat eleven more times. Then every arm and leg dropped to the ground, save for one. A single finger needed to touch the cultivation chamber, run itself along the ribs and pipes and embedded AIs. The gesture was loving or scornful, or it was habit. Or it meant something else entirely. There was no way to be certain about the emotions of an entity like this. But the voice that emerged sounded sorry. She sounded hurt and small and old and a little warm with rage, riding on a pain already ninety million years old.

“The grade was diluted,” she said.

“The fiber’s grade,” he guessed.

She offered a number. A detailed, thoroughly meaningful number. The hull that began being nearly the equal of the Great Ship’s hull was diminished by percentage points. Not many points, not in the expanse of what was possible. But it was obvious that she didn’t approve.

“That should have been plenty strong still,” Pamir said.

She said nothing.

“Enough to endure any war,” he added.

And in response, she touched his face. Poked it and ran the hard diamond finger along his fleshy nose and across his wet uncomfortable mouth, saying the one emphatic word, “Listen.”

• • • •

The warship was finished, and there was still enough time for many deep breaths. The tool makers had reason for pride. Their dream had demanded all of their native genius, consuming capital and their empire while destroying every other strategy to deal with an increasing number of enemies. They had to win. No other route would save them from obliteration. And while winning still wasn’t assured, even with their flagship fueled and armed, the battle plans remained solid. That dense little sun was in position. The nudging solar flares were finished, the solar system exactly where it needed to be, and what promised to be a spectacular launch was about to commence. Those in charge weren’t demonstrative souls, but the occasion demanded festivities and self-congratulatory speeches as well as honors bestowed by important voices. Several honors were given to the storyteller, and ages later she remained proud enough to name each award. Or perhaps she was just being thorough. Which was in her nature, after all. Then with her voice turning soft, she mentioned that half of her sisters were chosen to ride the warship, in stasis but perpetually ready to come awake whenever the vast gray hull was battered by comets or enemy bombs. As an asset, she wouldn’t be scrapped. No, she would be frozen and carried along with the accompanying fleet. But after all of her steady selfless work, that critical duty felt like an insult. She implied that with her tone, then a brief silence. And finally, with one sharp confession. To a creature she barely knew, the tool admitted that a portion of her mind was doing nothing but wishing for a horrible, manageable disaster. Something foul would strike the warship, many sisters dying in the carnage, and then the tool makers would come to her with fresh work and many, many apologies.

“I was watching,” she said. Then the words were repeated again and again, and Pamir gave up counting after twenty times. Then the watcher quit speaking, a considerable stillness taking hold of her body, and that stillness didn’t end when she spoke again.

“That little sun struck its target. At the perfect moment, in the proper location, a small dense and relatively cool star dove into a much larger star, resulting in a fine explosion. A beautiful explosion.”

“Explosions are always lovely,” Pamir agreed.

“I was stationed aboard an auxiliary vessel safely removed from spectacle. But the heat of the blast, which was as rich as the outpouring light, could be felt. Could be relished. And those effects were minor next to the gravitational maelstrom. One star was swallowed by another, and a world-sized machine was set free. Without suffering any damage, by the way. But that event added nothing to its speed. No, the warship needed to plunge close to the quick-spinning, quick-moving black hole, and in turn, stealing away a portion of that enormous energy.

“No other maneuver demands so much precision. You can imagine. Several of the ship’s giant engines were fired for the first time, and they didn’t fail. My ship struck its mark within centimeters of the ideal. Within the length of a hand. What I built pushed fabulously close to a collapsed star, and I watched, and in an instant the nearest point was reached, and that I watched, and then as the tides found their maximum, everything seemed well. I watched and nothing changed inside my gaze, and that’s when I discovered that, to my relief, I wasn’t a bitter entity wishing the worst for the others. This total success made me genuinely happy. My hyperfiber was at least adequate if not superior, and still watching, I decided to speak to my nearby sisters, telling them that perhaps in the future we could build a second warship of this caliber, or better, and employ it to explore one of our neighboring galaxies.”

The words stopped.

After a little while, Pamir said, “Tides,” and then, “No. They shouldn’t have mattered. A hull like that might have fractured a bit. But nothing that couldn’t be patched, in time.”

One foot lifted, toes drawing a sphere.

“You’re imagining common failures and simple consequences,” she said. “But that’s only because you’re a simple human, and why would you need to know anything else?”

“Tell me what else,” he said.

“Hyperfiber,” she said. “Those extraordinary bonds hold against every ordinary force. In most circumstances, the embedded power is out of reach. A contractor and his little tools have no need for these theoretical matters. But if each of those powerful bonds is shattered, and if the shattering happens in the proper, most awful sequence, energy is liberated. Not just the power available in our universe, but within countless adjacent realms too. Hyperfiber will burn, and it doesn’t burn gently. Not like hydrogen fuses or antimatter obliterates. No, if one billion warships with identical flaws have worked hard to place themselves in one position, inside one moment and one tiny volume, they are nearly the same bodies. And if identical fissures open in each of these realms . . . well, the strength of a trillion ships floods into your existence, and the meaning of your life evaporates inside one wild light, and an empire dies, and the universe surrounding you breaks into a celebration considerably more joyous than the grubby little party you were having just a few breaths ago . . .”

• • • •

It was rare for humans to enter the Avenue of Tools, and it was unprecedented for one of the Ship’s captains to walk among the residents. But this was a unique captain. Competence, seamless and steady competence, had carried Aasleen from being a very successful engineer into the highest ranks of the administration. This was a human who understood the nature and beauty of machines, and she made no secret about relishing the company of machines over her own species. It was even said that the lady’s husbands were robots and she had secret children who were cyborgs. That’s why some of the tools, seeing her so close, began to hope that maybe she was looking for a new mate, and maybe this would be their best day ever.

But no, Aasleen was seeking one very particular tool, one using a string of names.

A locally famous tool, as it happened.

The captain found what she wanted soon enough. And the ancient tool wasn’t entirely surprised by its visitor. Yet ignorance was a good starting point in any relationship, and that’s why the tool said, “I’ve done nothing illegal.”

“Have I accused you of crimes?” Aasleen asked.

“My business remains within the letter of the law,” the tool added.

Aasleen laughed at the game. Then her human hands unfolded the crudest possible note: permanent ink on a piece of human skin. The skin was supple and pale and mostly depleted of its genetic markers. But not entirely, and what remained held hints of a known criminal who had been chased by nobody for many aeons now. What mattered were the words on the parchment. “‘Madam captain, you’re planning to fly us close to a black hole,’” she read aloud. “‘The rendezvous is a few years off, but maybe you should think a little harder about your methods. And that’s why you should chat with a genuine expert in hyperfiber.’”

She stopped reading. “At this point, your various names are listed.”

The tool stood in the center of the artery, flanked by hundreds of motionless, intensely interested neighbors.

“Do you ever speak to humans?” Aasleen asked.

“I have, yes.”

“Recently?”

“None recently,” the tool said.

“Do you know any humans at all?”

She said, “I did. One man. But he died several decades ago.”

“A man?”

“I worked with him, yes.”

“He hired you for a job, did he?”

“For many jobs. We formed a partnership and thrived as a team. For nearly eighty years, yes. His last will gave me the business and all of its contracts, which is why I am the richest citizen in the Avenue today.”

“How did this man die?”

“Tragically and without any corpse to honor,” the tool said.

Aasleen let that topic drop. Instead, she shifted the parchment in her fingers, reading the rest of the odd note.

“‘Ask the lady about the great ship that she built. Which may or may not have been real. But that isn’t the point. You’ll know that, Aasleen. The point is that maybe we don’t want to be too precise in our aim. Or everything turns to shit on us. And you don’t want that, my friend.’”

“You don’t want that,” the tool agreed.

Aasleen said nothing.

With a hopeful voice, the tool asked, “Is there more to the message?”

“‘And this beauty,’ he writes. ‘This beauty before you has a thousand other wonderful stories to tell.’”

The tool moved her limbs, drawing spheres in the air.

“I don’t know the author to this note of yours,” she claimed. “But he is right in one regard, madam. Yes, I am a beauty.”

©2016 by Robert Reed. Originally published in Bridging Infinity, edited by Jonathan Strahan. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Reed is the author of three hundred-plus published stories, plus more than a dozen novels. He is best known for his Great Ship stories, including Marrow and The Memory of Sky, and for the novella, “A Billion Eves,” which won the Hugo Award in 2007. Many of Reed’s favorite titles are now available on Kindle. He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska with his wife and daughter.

The Historiography of Loss

Julianna Baggott | 4091 words

I didn’t expect the trailer to feel so small and that some of the blood would still be wet. But I must have expected some blood because I cuffed my jeans before going in.

And I didn’t expect the cats would have come back—a window was open, its screen clawed loose. I didn’t expect how they pawed through the blood. Dotting the counters with their small footprints.

I didn’t expect the trailer to feel so densely packed—a family had lived here, a mother, a father, a twelve-year-old son, and all of their stuff. The parents’ bedroom—I didn’t expect how violently tight it would be, their lives drawn in, coiled, the nowhere-to-go of it. Especially in winter. Especially muffled in snow.

I didn’t expect to see the holster, but there it was, on the carpet. I didn’t expect the intimacy. I didn’t expect how the list of things-to-get would shake in my hand like a love note.

I didn’t expect a neighbor to show up at the door and shout if I needed help. “Little lady! You okay in there?”

I didn’t expect to throw things to him—like from a sinking boat to a dock—while he said how nice they’d all seemed, quiet, respectful.

And the dog. That was my main purpose. Get the dog. I didn’t expect the dog to be so small. Its ribs so rodent-dainty. I didn’t expect for it to shake and keep shaking and how that made me stop shaking. As I picked it up from the bed, I didn’t expect to whisper, “Come here, little fucker. Let’s get out of here together,” and how, after I said it, I choked up. It was so tender.

I didn’t expect to turn around and see the twelve-year-old boy. “Do you get it now?” he said. “This is why I’m the way I am. This.”

I didn’t expect to love the boy, but that’s how it is. I loved the boy because he was my father.

The one who gave me up.

• • • •

How did I get in the trailer in the first place?

I started out with the free promotional thing—upload an old photo and watch it come to life! The company was pretty well-known at the time, called TechoNostalgia. I chose to upload a photo of my father because I’d never met him. I’d only heard the story. He was young when I was born, just twenty. And my mother was even younger, just seventeen, an addict who left when I was a few weeks old. This was in Grand Forks and it was winter. I imagine her in a thin coat and jeans and sneakers, heading out onto the salted sidewalks, banked by two feet of snow.

My father had to take over alone. He wasn’t perfectly sober himself. He knew he couldn’t raise a kid—or he could but it would go badly. When I was six months old or so, his best friend Kenny had moved in with this girl named Biv who’d been raised on a commune and was chill and sweet and patient. One night my father was over and a little strung out, and Kenny was sick with a fever and chills. My father watched Biv take care of Kenny and decided that she could probably handle a baby. A few nights later, my father was there again. It was late. Biv and Kenny had fallen asleep on their futon, and I was just this little baby, asleep in a car seat sitting on the floor.

My father scribbled a note, tucked it into the padding of the car seat, and walked out.

But I wasn’t raised by Biv and Kenny. They weren’t ready either. I was adopted by an ophthalmologist and a software engineer who moved to Pasadena—Walinda and Tim Merchant, my parents. (They’re wonderful and I love them, but this story isn’t about them.) A short oral report of my early months of life, provided by Biv and Kenny, was in my medical file.

When I was in my teens, I looked up my biological parents. My mother was gone by her early twenties. My father made it to thirty-eight. He’d cleaned himself up but died in a work-related accident on a construction site in Muncie. He’d gotten married and divorced and remarried and had two more kids by then, twin daughters.

There was no reason to love my father. But there was no reason not to love him either. And so I did.

But let me be completely honest, I also hated the man. I hated that he gave up a six-month-old baby. And sometimes, when I could get to the anger—really feel it—I hated him because that baby was me. A lot of the time it was a story. But, when my defenses were down, it was personal. I’m a professor now, a historiographer, and so I study how histories are told, not history itself. I like being just slightly removed.

One night, I’d gotten home from a faculty potluck and couldn’t sleep. I was sitting up in bed, rain ticking on the windows. I’d heard about Nostalgia apps from my colleague, Ginny. We were hired five years ago, her in Digital Anthropology. “I had this old photo of my great grandmother at a muddy outdoor concert,” she told me. “I uploaded it and she started dancing. It was magical.”

I should note that I’d been thinking of getting pregnant. I’d frozen my eggs when I was twenty-eight. Now, ten years later, I was thinking about babies a lot. They suddenly seemed like they were everywhere—in restaurants and grocery stores, staring at me from backpacks. I wasn’t waiting for the right person to marry. I like people well enough. But never enough to think about spending my life with one of them. It struck me as a very strange supposition—the foreverness.

If I was interested in becoming a mother, why didn’t I track down my mother? That would have made more sense. But I saw her, at seventeen, as a kid herself, going through the fear and trauma of being pregnant and then labor. Maybe she was dealing with post-partum depression.

My father, on the other hand, had been twenty. And he’d known sadness as a kid—his mother died when he was pretty young; I’d found her obituary. She was just thirty-three. Did I think that made him a little sturdier? Did that explain why he fell recklessly in love with my mother? (Had they been in love at all?)

Mainly, I couldn’t get over this alternate reality in my head in which he didn’t leave that note, didn’t walk out that door. What would my life have been like then? Over those six months, did he bond with me at all? If so, how’d he write that note and simply walk out that door?

I realize now, of course, hindsight and all, that I had unfinished business.

I had a scanned photo of my father from his high-school yearbook. He was a senior. I uploaded it and waited while the algorithms did their work. And then my father—that still image of him—blinked and looked around. At this point, he was still trapped on my computer screen, but it was amazing to see him come to life, surprised to find himself here, awake and alive. He smiled.

But what hooked me wasn’t my young father brought back to life in this intangible way. It wasn’t even that I looked like him a little at that age—especially in our mouth, our lips, the pitch of our noses. No. It was the moment when his eyes met mine, directly.

It wasn’t seeing my father alive that was addictive but being seen by him.

• • • •

I ordered the Life-Size Nostalgia Kit, choosing my father at the age he would be if he’d lived, fifty-five. A technician came to my house one afternoon. They had a stiff waxy haircut and wore a nametag—Skye—with the company address on it, like if they got lost, this was where someone should return them. It felt very proprietary.

“Your father, huh?” Skye seemed skeptical. “Fathers are tricky.”

“You mean, technically more difficult to render?”

“I mean, fathers, in general. Have you ever been to a support group of any kind? Fathers, fathers, fathers. Sometimes mothers, sure. They took most of blame historically, but only because men were in charge of psychology. Really? Blame fathers.” Skye raised their shoulders, lifted their hands. “But, you know, sometimes fathers are great.”

“I didn’t know mine.”

“You’re going in blind?” Skye asked.

“Is that bad?”

“I’ve heard mixed results.”

“Is he going to be the way he was in life, personality-wise?” I wanted to make sure I was meeting the right person.

“Yeah, the tech has gotten pretty good at nailing that down.” They pulled out a waiver. “But, look, shit can get weird with these things, and he’ll really take a while to charge—lots of sleeping the first few days.”

There was way too much fine print. “What do you mean—shit can get weird?”

“If I were to summarize this waiver, that’s how I’d put it. You’re either up for that or not.”

I was already in deep. “Fine, yes. I guess.” I signed.

Skye installed the whole thing—a network that extended to the edges of my property, a program uploaded to my computer, and, soon enough, a 3D body appeared in my living room. It was, at first, a rough estimate, the vague size and shape of my father, but without detail.

“You ready?” Skye asked.

“I think so.”

Skye started the rendering process. And, just like that, my father’s hands took shape. He was opening and closing his fists. Buttons on his shirt, a jawline, a fine bristle of hair on his head.

Then his nostrils flared and his eyes opened—a wild angry flutter. His lips appeared and suddenly he gasped like someone coming to the surface of a lake.

“Good luck,” Skye said and they left.

I was transfixed by my father, barely able to move. It was just my father and me, together for the first time since I was a baby in a car seat. “Hi,” I said.

“What the hell?” he said. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m your daughter, Emi.”

He wasn’t completely surprised by this, but he was a little suspicious. “And this is . . .”

“My house,” I said. “I’m hoping we can get to know each other because, you know, we didn’t . . .”

“When I was alive.”

“So you know you’re dead?”

“I know . . . a good bit. It’s coming to me now. Why I’m here, what customers sometimes expect . . . I think . . .” I could see different realizations washing over him. He looked at his hands and then plucked at his shirt. “I’m real and not real. I exist and I don’t. And I might not last.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes we don’t . . . last.” He started walking around the living room. He leaned into some abstract art on the wall—close enough to see brushstrokes. Then backed away and frowned at it. “I’m really fucking tired. You mind if I crash?”

“Not at all.”

I showed him to the guest room which doubled as my exercise room—an elliptical, yoga mats, kettle bell . . .

He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Does this seem comfortable?” I asked.

He bounced on the bed a little. “It’s all good. Thanks.”

As I’d been warned, he slept for hours and hours, charging. I would pause at the door, listening to him thrash and murmur in his sleep.

• • • •

The TechNostalgia version of my father was always hungry, but he couldn’t eat. He wasn’t embodied in that way. So the hunger seemed to be burning him. He took it personally.

He took a lot of things personally—the news, the weather, my way of looking at him. “What?” he said. “What do you want from me?”

I wanted a lot from him but they were all unnameable things.

He liked to sit in the back yard in a lawn chair and stare up at the sky.

I’d set up a chair next to him and ask questions. The answers were always short.

“What were your parents like?”

“Messy. Strange.” He paused. “Violent.”

“Did you have friends?”

“We had an eight-pound rat terrier that I loved a lot.”

“Did you like school?”

“I hated it. I couldn’t read very well.”

“What was your house like?”

“Canopy Trailer Park. Last one on the left,” he said, as if giving me directions.

“How did you meet my mother?”

“Ice rink after hockey practice.”

“You played ice hockey?”

“Kicked off the team. For weed.”

I didn’t expect this blunt honesty. I didn’t really know that I’d had any expectations. In his picture, he was smiling—and silent, of course. Is that what I’d extrapolated, creating an idea of his entire personality as happy and quiet—from a photo? “What was my mother like?” I asked.

“Shy. Pretty.” His face didn’t soften as I’d expect it might.

After a quick back-and-forth like this, he’d stop answering questions. He’d lift his face to the sun and close his eyes. Done.

• • • •

He could change clothes, I noticed. The button-down was gone. He wore black t-shirts with rock bands that I didn’t recognize and tour dates from when he was young. He drank from a mug that had NO HABLA BULLSHIT written on it—one I’d never seen before. And, shortly after that, he learned how to create hologram meals through the program. They appeared on the dining-room table—roasts and pork chops and potato salad and pies. He would devour them in greedy silence and yet still seemed hungry.

He spent more and more time outside, rarely coming in.

I had a desk set up in the corner of my bedroom. I was teaching only two courses that semester and was working on a book. I’d write notes and pore over documents and then move to the window where I had a view of my father. He liked the birds at the feeder. He watched them intently.

Then, one night, I saw him walking in a rectangle, pacing it out like he was measuring something. He’d look up at the night sky as if for navigation. He put four sticks in the ground and in the far corner of the staked-out rectangle, he lied down, curled to his side, and went to sleep.

As a historiographer, I write a lot about historians. What would one say about the people who brought back those they loved—or hated or needed something from or wanted to destroy or apologize to or be granted forgiveness from . . . ? Would the historians see people like me as a complex narrative? Would they see us as weak?

I saw myself as weak. When I stood in the same room with my father, I felt needy and lost.

We don’t last . . .

What did that mean? Was my father going to abandon me again?

If he did, would I be injured by it—or relieved?

• • • •

One night, we had a fight.

It was dusk. I’d asked as many questions as I could and then he shut down on me. But this time he didn’t close his eyes. We were sitting in our lawn chairs. The four sticks were in the ground. The grass in the place where he slept was worn down. He looked at me. “Just ask it.”

“Ask what?”

“You brought me back so you could blame me.” He was agitated.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is.”

“How do you know?”

He stood up and walked over to one of the sticks. “You’re not the only one who chose me for this program, you know.”

“What?”

“Tina,” he said. “And Lizzy. And one of the twins.”

“What are you saying? Who are Tina and Lizzy and the twins?” But I remembered the names. They were his wives. Tina had the twins. It was strange—like getting a refurbished second-hand computer and finding someone else’s old files on it. I suddenly wondered what happened between all of them.

“You think you’re the only damage done?” He looked at me squarely.

“Damage?” I said. “I’m not damage.”

“Then what are you?”

Was this a rhetorical question?

“What are you?” he said again, louder.

“Fuck you,” I said.

“You can’t even ask me the question,” he said.

I got up and walked to the house. The sliding door was heavy and a little off its track so I had to pull hard.

“If you aren’t damage, then what are you?”

I slammed the sliding door shut.

Later that night, I woke up. It was around two a.m. I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Was I the damage he’d done? Was I damage? What did Tina and Lizzy and one of the twins do with him?

What was the question I should be asking? He knew it but I didn’t. Was it—how did you write the note, tuck it in my car seat, and walk out that door?

Maybe it was.

I walked to the window. Instead of four stakes in the ground, there was a partial, see-through rendering of a trailer. It existed faintly, like an etching. I could see my father in the corner, but his tall, bulky body was lying on a bed in a very small bedroom, clothes piled around him and on the floor, drawers open.

The grass around the trailer was dead.

What the hell?

I couldn’t find my bathrobe but there was a chill in the air so I put on a puffy coat over my pajamas. Barefoot. The grass was wet with dew.

“Dad?”

He didn’t stir.

But there was this growling noise and then a high-pitched yap. And through the hazy rendering of the trailer, I saw the little rat terrier emerge from the covers and glare at me from the edge of the bed. It was wire-haired, black with a some white splotches. “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m not going to bother you.”

I walked back in through the sliding door and watched the trailer become more dense. It took on details—wood steps, worn siding, rust and dents. It felt so real. Like the truest and saddest thing I’d ever seen.

• • • •

I didn’t see my father for days.

After a week, I knocked on the thin trailer door. It rattled against the frame. “Are you okay in there?”

The dog barked.

“Do you hear me? Can I come in? Do you need help?”

It was quiet. Then the dog made sad whimpering sounds.

“Not yet,” my father said. “No, no. Not yet.”

• • • •

A few days after that, I found the note. It sat on the dining-room table.

It was a list written in a messy scrawl, written by someone on edge.

Meds in bathroom

Clothes, shoes

Trailer insurance info—in the kitchen drawer

wallet

lock box—near fishing gear

The dog—the dog!!!

It was a list of things . . . to pick up? But not at a store, of course. I knew where the dog was—in the trailer. Was this a list of things to get out of the trailer? Had my father left, again, and was he telling me things that needed to be . . . saved? Meds, whose meds? His wallet?

It didn’t matter. I was going in for the dog. If he left, someone needed to take care of the rat terrier.

I walked out to the back yard. The trailer sat diagonally—under some constellation, I presumed. I walked to the door again and knocked hard. “Are you in there?” I knocked again. “I’m coming in!”

But I didn’t. I backed away from the trailer. I looked at the bare dirt that used to be lush grass. And snow appeared, as if an afterthought. Crusty snow, mottled with dirt. Snow capping the roof of the trailer.

What were your parents like?

Messy. Strange.

Violent.

The snow spread. It covered what had been the dirt patch around the trailer.

Blood in it. A dense clump. And a pink trail.

One of the windows was open. The screen ripped and flapping in the breeze.

Someone on edge—my father or not my father at all—wrote the note. Wallet. A man? A man couldn’t come into this trailer to get the wallet himself.

Messy. Strange. Violent.

My father’s mother died young. Thirty-three.

I cuffed my jeans.

• • • •

The small trailer. The wet blood. The cats’ bloody pawprints on the counter.

All of their stuff. Coiled, the nowhere-to-go of it.

Especially muffled in snow.

The holster on the carpet.

My father wasn’t there. The list of things-to-get was shaking in my hand.

Where was the dog? The dog.

“Little lady! You okay in there?”

Where did the neighbor come from? Who rendered him?

I put the note in my pocket. I picked up a bag and collected clothes—for a twelve year old boy.

My father. Where was he?

I looked for the things on the list. I threw the bag of clothes to the neighbor, a pair of boots.

And the dog, hiding in the corner of the bed where my father would sleep. “Come here, little fucker. Let’s get out of here together.” My cinched-up throat, a blur of tears.

“Do you get it now?”

I was holding the dog. I was looking at my father, a boy.

“This is why I’m the way I am. This.”

I loved him.

I pulled the note out of my pocket. “Did someone give this to you? Were you the one sent back into the trailer after . . .”

He nodded.

“They shouldn’t have asked that of you.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said.

“It’s where I have to be,” he said.

“You should come with me. I’ll take care of you. I’ll help you. Let’s go. We have to go.”

“Ask the question.”

“What?” The dog was so small, the size of a newborn.

“Ask the question.”

“I don’t know the question!”

“Yes you do. Ask it!” His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. He’d been crying.

“Is it . . . is it . . . how you did it? How’d you write that note and leave?”

“No,” he said. “That’s not it.”

“That’s right. It’s not about that moment, that night. That one decision.”

“It never was.”

“It’s how you did it every day after that.”

“You’re getting closer.”

I was crying now. I held the dog against my chest. “It’s how you could keep not coming back.”

“This,” he said. “This here. This taught me that if you feel too much love . . .” His voice cut out. He was crying.

“You’ll have it taken from you?”

Chin to chest, he nodded.

“Your mother,” I said.

His eyes darted around the trailer like he saw her everywhere. “I loved her so much.”

“And you loved me.”

“Of course.”

“How much?” This was the real question. I could tell by the way his eyes brightened—a sudden flare.

This was his answer, the one he’d been wanting to give. “Too much.”

He reached out for the dog and I gave it to him. The dog licked his chin, salty from crying.

“Do you want to stay?” I said.

“I need to stay,” he said. “For a while.”

And he did.

• • • •

It’s been like this for many years. He did last. He continues to. My father will live inside the house for a while, with me and my daughter, who’s now four years old and full of why-why-why? (This is my attempt to figure it out myself—why, why, why?) He’s a good grandfather when he can be one. What he has to do is keep making the decision to come back to us, and I have to keep making the decision to let him in.

He still gets restless, drawn away from us again. He’ll start sleeping in the yard. The sticks go in—four corners of the rectangle. And soon enough, the trailer is back. I hear the dog yapping. There’s snow.

He doesn’t need me to go after him anymore.

The snow—with its splotches of blood—eventually melts.

©2022 by Julianna Baggott.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julianna Baggott is the author of over a dozen novels, including Pure and The Seventh Book of Wonders, both New York Times Notable Books of the Year. Her work is in development for film/TV with options at Warner Brothers, Disney+, and Lionsgate. She has a forthcoming story collection, I’d Really Prefer Not to be Here with You, and a novella, The Wick. She teaches screenwriting at the Florida State University Film School.

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

Bhatia, PI

Shiv Ramdas | 9122 words

It's a few minutes before seven on a cold October evening and I’m just reaching into the bottom drawer of my desk for the Old Monk and my well-thumbed copy of The Big Sleep when I hear footsteps hurrying up the stairs. A new case, has to be. I sigh, give the drawer a regretful look and shut it again. I sit up, awaiting the knock. It never comes. Instead the door swings open, slamming into the wall, sending plaster chips flying everywhere. Then I see her standing in the doorway.

You can tell a lot about a client by looking at them. How they walk, talk, dress, all of it tells you something. Like how much you can charge. The woman on my threshold is silver-haired and short. Typical West Delhi aunty, the sort who demands her son leave work to play driver when she goes vegetable shopping and then spends an hour negotiating a one rupee discount on peas. Somehow she’s got past my secretary. I make a mental note to have a word with Sandhya later. Back to the woman in my doorway, she’s wearing a pastel-pink salwar-kameez, fake-gold earrings, and an ugly frown. The sort of look I’m all too familiar with. A badge on her kameez spells out her name.

I rise to my feet. “Mrs. Bhatia, I presume.”

“You presume? I’m your mother, you good for nothing lout! Have you applied for a job yet?”

“But Ma, this is my job!”

“No it isn’t, Zorawar! A job pays. In money. Not promises or silly advertising posters. ‘No case too small,’ it seems. What a clichéd line. Almost as stupid as paying for silly business cards that don’t make sense.”

“It’s not my fault they misprinted my cards! I’m using them anyway, aren’t I?”

“You’d better. I’m not paying for you to print new ones. Did you apply for jobs or not? I’m telling you, if you don’t start paying me rent by the end of the week, you can go find another place to stay, understand?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“I could be renting this flat for so much money!”

“Flat? It’s a one room studio with no bathroom.”

She glares at me. “It’s a great location!”

“In Vikaspuri?”

“Well, it has a great view. People pay a lot for view.”

“It has one window. That overlooks a slaughterhouse.”

“Suresh at Mother Dairy said he knows someone who’ll give me 5000 rupees a month for it. If you don’t give me at least that much by the end of the week, I’m telling him he can have it. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Good. I’ve had about enough of you pretending to be a private investigator or whatever up here.”

I sit up straight and fix her in a look that’s hopefully both cold and hurt. Curt.

“I’ve told you so many times, I’m not a private investigator, ma, I’m a paranormal investigator. Bhatia, PI.”

“You’re a pain in my backside is what you are. Paranormal it seems. Abnormal, more like it.”

She cackles, pleased at her own wit. “Worse than abnormal. What a disappointment you have turned out to be. With such great expectations your dear departed father and I called you Zorawar, thinking you too will do great things like that general from history, instead you have fully wasted your name, thoo.”

“I’m telling you Ma, once word gets out, my services will be in demand. It’s going to be the next big thing. I’ll be the pioneer in the industry.”

“Oho, what a great pioneer. Go explore some other place then. And why is Sandhya here? I pay her to cook for me, not waste her time playacting with you.”

“She’s already finished her cooking for the day. And she’s my secretary.”

“Secretary? Do you even pay her?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. She’s an equal partner in the firm. Fifty percent of all earnings.”

“So, nothing?”

“Well, actually, what happened was—”

“For the past three months you’ve been squatting here pretending to be some hotshot detective, but enough is enough. Have you even had one person hire your services?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Other than that fellow who came here by accident thinking you were a real estate agent?”

I look coldly at her. “I’ll get you your rent by the end of the week.”

“5000 rupees.”

“I’m not paying 5000 for this. 3000.”

“3500.”

“Are you a mother or a slum lord?”

“Are you a son or a cabbage?”

We stare at each other for a long minute. Finally, I nod, eyes suitably lowered. She’s got me.

“Fine, 3500.”

She emits a satisfied grunt. Or maybe it’s a snarl, it’s hard to tell the difference when your mind is consumed with financial worries. She turns to leave, then stops. “Oh, and throw away that stupid detective novel. That’s what’s putting all this kachra in your head.”

I draw myself up very straight, mustering what dignity I have left. “I’m not discussing my taste in literature with you,” I say. “You’ll have your rent by Sunday.”

She looks hard at me for a moment. “Sunday, Zorawar.”

And with that, finally, mercifully, she’s gone, although I can hear her yelling at Sandhya downstairs about not encouraging foolishness.

I walk over to the door and slam it. It swings back open. I slam it again. It opens once more. Now I see that a hinge is busted—it won’t close, like it’s mocking me too.

I disregard the insubordinate door and go back to my desk. I reach into the drawer, grabbing the Old Monk and a glass. I pour myself a peg, knock it back, feeling the welcome burn of cheap rum. With a glance at the door in case she’s returned, I defiantly reach for my copy of The Big Sleep. Then I pour another peg.

I’m raising the glass to my lips when I hear the knock and see Sandhya poking her head in, her thick black hair oiled and pulled neatly back into a plait, a pair of bright inquisitive eyes looking at me from above a mouth which as always, has the hint of a smile about it, as though its wearer is perpetually on the verge of amusement. I beckon her in; she doesn’t move.

I turn back to look glumly at my drink. “You heard all that? This is it, Sandhu. We’re pretty much fu—”

“Yes, I know we’re full up, sir.”

“Full? Full of sadness, that’s what. No, what I meant to say was we’re fu—”

She clears her throat loudly, interrupting me again.

“We can discuss scheduling later, Mister Bhatia.”

Something’s off. Emphasis apart, she never calls me mister. I turn to her again, and as I do, she steps back to give me a good look at the man standing behind her.

“We have a new client, sir.”

It takes all my self-control not to rush over and give her a high-five.

“Ah, yes, of course,” I stammer, quickly propping the book against my glass, hopefully obscuring it from view.

Sandhya leads the man in. He’s tall, slim, fifty-something, with a worried face only partially hidden by his neat goatee. He’s wearing an impeccable hand-tailored suit. Hand-tailored, mind you, and I don’t mean by one of those masterjis with the portable sewing machines down by the Metro station either. As he strides forward, snakeskin shoes leaving a trail of footprints on the dusty floor, he glances at a gold watch. Definitely not from Vikaspuri.

“Have a seat,” I say in what is hopefully a casual tone, waving a hand at the plastic garden chair on the other side of the desk.

He looks at it distastefully. “I think I’ll stand.”

“Of course, of course.”

“You are Mr. Bhatia, I take it?”

“Yes, yes, the one and only. Well, not only, I was reading an article in the Times of India today that says Bhatia is the third most common surname in Delhi, but I’m the only one here.”

I chuckle. He doesn’t. This isn’t going as well as I’d planned.

“Here, have my card,” I say, handing him one. He looks at it, his forehead scrunching up like spinach wilting in a tawa.

“Isn’t there just one N in the word investigator?”

“A misprint,” I say hastily. “Never mind, you can just keep the card. And what can I do for you today, Mr—?”

“Duggal. Amit Duggal. And I’m not sure if I’m actually in the right place-”

Thankfully, Sandhya takes charge. “Of course you are, Mr. Duggal. Now don’t be shy. If you came all the way here, it’s because you have a problem, and a serious one. As paranormal investigators, we’re the last resort, and our clients know this. As do you, Mr. Duggal. How did you hear about us anyway?”

“I saw a poster. No case too small, it said.”

I file away a triumphant glare to throw at Ma later. Meanwhile, Sandhya’s still talking to him. “. . . and I can promise you, if anyone can aid you, it’s Mr. Bhatia here. It’s what he’s best at, helping people.”

She’s even said it with a straight face. What a marvel this woman is. And she isn’t done yet.

“But we can’t help you if you won’t let us, can we, Mr. Duggal? Now, just stand over here, like so, and I’m going to sit here, and write down everything you tell Mr. Bhatia, OK? Don’t worry, everything you say is strictly confidential.”

The man sighs and wipes his forehead with a fancy lace handkerchief. I glance at Sandhya, who gestures towards Mr. Duggal with her eyes.

“Yes, tell me,” I say.

He sighs again. “It’s my son.”

“Yes, what about him?”

He shakes his head. “It started about two weeks ago. And it’s been getting worse ever since. My wife is beside herself with grief.”

“What’s getting worse?” I ask.

He wipes his brow again. He’s actually sweating, I realise. In October. He leans down over the desk, eyes locked on mine. When he speaks he’s whispering so softly I can barely hear him.

“Mr. Bhatia, do you have any experience dealing with possession cases?”

I wave a nonchalant hand. “Oh yes, many times. The trick is to never admit it’s yours and then unless they can prove—”

“I think Mr. Duggal is referring to demonic possession,” says Sandhya hastily.

I stop and look at Mr. Duggal. “What? Are you sure it’s demonic possession?”

“Of course I’m sure!” he snaps at me. “He rages, he screams, he blasphemes, he uses the foulest language at us, his own parents!”

“How old is your son?”

“Nineteen.”

“Well, it could just be typical teenage behaviour.”

“Could a typical teenager levitate? Or pick up a grand piano and throw it on a roof three stories up?”

I ponder the question. “Well, not a typical teenager,” I admit. “How did this begin? Tell me everything you can remember.”

“We thought he was just acting out, but it got worse and worse. We called in doctors, specialists, psychiatrists, nutritionists, everyone we could. None of them could do anything. But once I discovered the truth it all made sense.”

There’s a heavy silence in the room.

“We can’t even stay at our own house anymore. We’re desperate, Mr. Bhatia. Can you help us?”

Before I can answer, Sandhya does. “Of course we can! This is what we do, Duggal saab.”

“So you’ll take the case?”

“Certainly we will,” says Sandhya, glancing at me. My turn.

“Yes, yes, certainly, certainly,” I say, wearing my best welcoming smile.

He looks like he’s about to cry in relief, but recovers himself.

“Excellent. Follow me, please.”

“It’s like Sandhya said, this is what we—wait, you mean now?”

“Of course. My car is outside.”

I blink. There’s something about the way Mr Duggal’s been talking, like this isn’t the sort of easy job I’d envisaged. I shoot a worried look at Sandhya but she’s already following him down the stairs. With some reluctance, so do I.

We descend the stairs in single file, because they’re too narrow for anything else. Right before we reach the bottom, Sandhya turns to face me, beaming, and flashes a triumphant thumbs-up sign. I don’t return it, I’m too busy recalling what Duggal said about chucking pianos onto roofs. I can feel some sort of obstruction in my throat.

“Hold on,” I call out. “I just remembered something.”

I scamper back upstairs, head straight to the desk and knock back the abandoned drink.

A minute later I’m back outside, where a uniformed driver is opening the door of a luxury car. I get in, enjoying the feel of plush leather against my back. Quite the welcome change from my plastic chair. Then I realise there’s someone else in the car, a tall, stately woman, dressed in a chiffon sari.

“This is my wife Noor,” says Mr. Duggal. “Noor, this is Mr. Bhatia and his secretary, Sandhya. They’re ghosthunters.” He hands her my card. Her face assumes a familiar disapproving expression as she reads it.

“Investigator is spelt with only one N.”

“A minor printing error,” I start to say, and then realise I’m talking through gritted teeth. Sandhya once again leaps in to fill the breach. I leave her to it and, for the umpteenth time, make a mental list of all the things I want to do to Sapna Printing Press.

“Where to, sir?” asks the chauffeur.

“Home. The Aurangzeb Road house, Nitin. Fast as you can.”

I whistle. Aurangzeb Road. We’re in some high-flying company. As we drive, I turn to the Duggals.

“When did you realise your son was possessed?”

Mr. Duggal sighs. “We didn’t, not for a long time. Until my son fought off the beast long enough to send my wife a message from his phone.”

“May I see it?”

Mrs. Duggal looks at me, reaches into her purse and pulls out a cellphone. She hits a few buttons and hands it to me.

“Poor baby! He fought the demon long enough to send me this. My Monty’s still in there, I just know it.”

I take the phone and start reading.

“No more doctors. Find an exorcist. Please.”

“GO FUCKING DIE YOU OLD HAG”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t me. Please help. It’s getting worse.”

“YOURE UGLY!!!!”

“I’m getting weaker. Hurry! Please!”

That’s it. I hand the phone back.

“Well?” says Mr. Duggal.

“It clearly appears to be written by two authors. You’re right, he’s fighting it. What happened next?”

“I did what it asked,” says Mrs. Duggal. “I called in the family priest to look at Monty and he told us our son had been possessed by a demon.”

Mr. Duggal interjects. “Then Panditji went back into the room and never came out. We never saw him again. When we sent Nitin to the temple looking for him, his wife said he hadn’t been back.”

I gulp again, glancing out the window. The car is picking up speed.

“Then I screwed up my courage and went upstairs to Monty’s room. And do you know what I saw, Mr. Bhatia?”

“Tell us,” says Sandhya. I shoot her a look but she ignores it. She’s actually enjoying this.

“Blood. The pandit’s blood. Everywhere.”

I make a high-pitched, involuntary squeaking sound, and turn to the window once more. We’re on the highway now, and the car’s moving too fast for me to jump out. Plus, the doors are locked. We draw alongside another car, a blue sedan. I lean against my window and stare hopefully at the sedan driver, a kind-looking elderly gentleman. He turns to face me. Our eyes meet.

“Help me,” I mouth.

He looks sadly at me for a moment, then gives me the middle finger as we overtake him.

The car keeps going, faster and faster. And I’m trapped in it.

• • • •

It’s over two hours later when we pull up in front of the large iron gates on Delhi’s most expensive street. I’m so sick of the traffic by now, I’d almost rather face this demon. While we make our way down a winding, paved drive to the big white house, I work on our exit speech. The Duggals lead us up the portico stairs to a large front door. Its designer had not lacked diligence, judging by the intricate nature of the hideous coat of arms in its centre. As a finishing touch, the not-so-original motto of “Together Forever” was emblazoned underneath. I turn away from the nightmarish door, eyes squeezed shut, but when I open them again, it’s still there.

Mrs. Duggal notices me staring. “Oh, you like it?” she says proudly. “We designed it ourselves. We’re in the real estate business, you know, so we really understand these things. You’ve heard of Amit’s company, I’m sure. Duggal Enterprises? We do all the best work. You like the design?”

“Very nice,” I hear myself say weakly.

Mr. Duggal unlocks the door with a large key. He reaches to push it open, then hesitates. I don’t blame him, I wouldn’t want to touch that door either.

As he does, from somewhere in the house, a low howling sound resonates. I jump, and when I return to earth, I see both the Duggals looking shaken.

“Your dog?”

“No,” says Mr. Duggal. “We don’t have a dog.”

“Wolf?” I suggest hopefully. They shake their heads.

“We don’t have any pets,” says Mrs. Duggal. She points up at the second floor. “It’s coming from Monty’s room.”

“I see.” And I do, because as far as I’m concerned that pretty much settles it. I look at Mr. Duggal.

“Look, sir, there’s been a mistake.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, I’m not sure we can take this case.”

“You have to take it! Save my son! I’ll pay whatever you want. How much do you want, anyway? Ten lakhs? Twenty? It’s yours!”

“No, the thing is we’re—did you say twenty lakhs?”

“Not enough? Twenty-five then.”

“I am at your service, sir,” I say, bowing with a flourish. “Don’t you worry, we’ll be—”

I’m interrupted by a high-pitched shriek.

“Maybe we should take it from here,” says Sandhya quickly.

“Didn’t you hear that, Sandhya?” I say.

“Yes of course. Time to go to work. Now you both just wait in the car, okay? We’ll be back shortly.”

I open my mouth to protest, and then it hits me. Smart girl. She’s found a way for us to sound professional while saving face too. Now we can get in, wait on the other side of the hideous door for a few minutes, then get the hell out of here, hopefully with a consultation fee.

“Yes, indeed,” I say.

Mr. Duggal’s face collapses with relief.

“Are you sure?” says Mrs. Duggal.

“Of course they’re sure,” snaps Mr. Duggal. “Let’s not argue with professionals. We’ll wait in the car. It might be dangerous inside.”

Sandhya pushes the door open and we go inside, entering a large drawing room.

The inside of the house looks like it’s been done by the same artist as the door. For the interior, he’d apparently been given free access to several buckets of colours and one of LSD, with instructions to make sure he finished them all. I hear Sandhya gasp audibly and with some effort, I shut my mouth.

“Who . . . did this?”

“The Duggals,” I inform her.

“Are we sure it wasn’t the demon?”

Right on cue a bloodcurdling scream comes from upstairs, followed by a voice raised in obvious pain. Apparently he’s noticed the decor too.

“I can’t take it anymore!”

“You and me both, buddy,” I mutter.

“Help me! Please help me!”

The voice breaks off, replaced by a constant, low moan.

“Let’s wait he—” I say, then stop talking, because Sandhya’s already started up the staircase towards the moans. I hurry after her. No way I’m staying alone in that drawing room.

“What are you thinking?” I hiss. “This is clearly something beyond our—”

I stop, surveying the carnage around me.

Books lie scattered on the floor, torn pages fluttering in the breeze from smashed windows. The carpet and paintings are stained all over with spots of something dark and crusty. Deep scratches mar the paint on the walls, running all the way down to the closed bedroom door at the far end of the hallway.

The moans are coming from behind it.

I quickly grab Sandhya by the arm and point. “Over there. That window’s big enough to squeeze through, it’s not too far down and with a bit of luck we could be well clear of this place while those two are still sitting in their car and dreaming about their door.”

“Why? This is what we wanted.”

“To die in the world’s ugliest house? Speak for yourself.”

“Well, you started this detective agency.”

“Yes, to do a few stakeouts in abandoned houses, expose a fraudulent astrologer or two, that sort of thing. This is a real demon!”

“If it is a real demon.”

“You think it’s a hoax?”

She shrugs. “That’s the most likely explanation, isn’t it?”

“He threw a piano on the roof!”

“Or so they think. Maybe it’s an elaborate insurance scam or the kid faked it to bunk exams. We won’t know till we get in there and look.”

With that, she wrenches her arm free and is off down the corridor.

With a last, longing look at the window, I follow her. There really isn’t anything else to do, short of abandoning her to whatever’s in there. Much as she deserves it, I can’t do that.

With each step, Sandhya’s words make more and more sense. Demons aren’t real. Must be the teenager pranking his folks to avoid college. Part of me regrets not thinking of this when I was in school. The more I dwell on the thought, the more sense it makes. By the time I reach the end of the corridor I’m feeling positively rejuvenated. Taking a deep breath, I slowly turn the doorknob and follow her in.

The first thing I notice is the boy, flat on his back, levitating in the air two feet above what looks like a blood-soaked bed.

I can see the writing on the wall. No, literally. Macabre red lettering, spelling out something indecipherable in an ancient script.

A creeping sense of terror grows in my chest as I stand frozen, eyes transfixed to the words on the wall. It’s not until I find myself mouthing the words that I realise with a horrified thrill that somehow, impossible, unfathomable as it is, I’m standing here reading a mystical language I never knew existed. Then it dawns on me that this is because the writing on the wall isn’t an ancient script, just a sentence in really bad handwriting:

“BRING ME PLAYSTATION 5.”

I look accusingly at Sandhya. “Scam, huh?”

As we speak, the boy sits up. His eyes flip open and they’re completely white. A slow smile spreads across his face. “At last! Someone’s finally here.”

It’s a deep, low, rumbling voice, and yet it’s frenetic somehow, like someone put pebbles in a blender and cranked it up to max. I recoil, whirling towards the door. The boy-demon gestures and it slams shut.

“Wouldn’t want us to be disturbed,” says the boy.

He’s floating towards us now.

Only one thing left to do. “Help! Help!”

“Exactly,” agrees the boy-demon. “After all, that’s why I sent for you.”

“Help!!”

Sandhya steps forward. “Stay back, demon!”

“Demon?” he says indignantly, swiveling his head 180 degrees to frown at her. “Demon? There’s no demons here. Djinn, if you please.”

“Sorry, did you say djinn?”

“I did say djinn.”

“Djinn?”

“Djinn. Now will you be quiet and listen? We’re running out of time. I’m holding that creature off for now, but he could be back any moment.”

Even with all that’s going on, this bit of news demands my attention.

“Holding him off? So you’re not the demon?”

“Again you call me demon! What demon? Who do you think you’re calling a demon? Told you, I’m a djinn.”

I clutch at Sandhya. “He’s back! The demon’s back!”

“For the last time, I’m a djinn! And not just any djinn, either! I tried not to say it, the attention gets so embarrassing, but you leave me no choice, so I shall.”

He clears his throat.

“Mortals, you are in the presence of Wahid the Great. Yes, the very same, the one and onl—”

“Who?” says Sandhya.

“Excuse me? Did you say who?”

“Yes, who?”

“Wahid the Great. You’ve probably heard about me.”

“No, not really.”

“You’ve never heard of Wahid the Great, Igniter of Flames?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you probably know me by a different name. What about Mahasura, Thief of Time?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”

“Nagadanga, Breaker of Walls?”

“I’ve never heard any of these names.”

His smile fades. “Typical,” he mutters. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Bottom line, I need your help.”

I blink. “You need our help?”

“Exactly. You see, there’s been a bit of an administrative accident. A bureaucratic bungle, if you will. You might even call it a coordination catastrophe. Bottom line, there was a mistake and I’ve been trapped in this boy ever since and I’ve had enough.”

“You mean Monty?”

A look of anguish spreads over his face. “Don’t say his name! If he hears you he might wake up!”

“Who, Mon—”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve had enough. He’s horrible. Absolutely insufferable. Most traumatic experience of any of my lives. I can’t take it anymore. I need to get out.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You need our help getting out of the body you possessed in the first place?”

“Yes, exactly. You have no idea what it’s like, being stuck in here inside this kid! All he does is complain and whine, and demand things he’s done nothing to deserve, and say horrible things to hurt people and look for attention over his imagined problems and be awful to everyone. It’s unbearable. Do you have any idea what it’s like sharing a mind with an internet edgelord?”

“Who, Monty?”

His face contorts, like it’s fighting with itself, and then settles into a self-satisfied smirk.

“Feminazis! Fuck your feelings!”

His features contort again. “No, I won’t be silenced! Freedom of speech! This is reverse casteism! Fuck you, beta cucks! I’ll—”

He stops, mouth jerking from side to side like a centrist politician asking for civility, and then emits a low howl. Finally, his face stops moving around and settles into an annoyed look.

“Didn’t I tell you not to say his name?”

Sandhya and I look at each other.

“That was the Duggals’ son?” I ask.

“Yes! He’s an absolute monster. Get me out of here, please! I’m begging you!”

“Wait—so it wasn’t him who sent for us?”

“No! What’s wrong with you people? Why would he send for you? He’s sharing his body with Wahid the Great!”

“So it was you?”

“Well, duh!”

I turn to Sandhya.

“I think it was this djinn who sent for us.”

“That’s Wahid the Great to you, thank you very much.”

Sandhya studies the boy’s face. “Well, Wahid doesn’t seem evil.”

“No, not at all,” he says, floating closer. “Far from it.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “What about the priest then?”

“What prie—oh that one? He jumped out of the hallway window and ran away.”

“And this blood?”

“Fake. From Amazon. Look, if I was evil, I wouldn’t even be allowed here. Even us supernatural beings of immense power have to follow the rules.”

“Hold on,” says Sandhya. “If you’re a supernatural being with all these powers why don’t you just leave?”

The boy’s head droops a bit, looking defeated. “It’s not that simple. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“What do you mean?”

He pauses. “That’s personal.”

“And the rest of this isn’t?”

“Well, it’s like—Look, do I have to tell you?”

“If you want our help.”

“Fine, fine, if you really must know, the spirit realm is a little beyond my means these days. There was a time I could afford to live beyond the veil, but those days are over. And there are plenty more like me, I’ll have you know. Just way too many supernaturals and not enough room. The market’s gone through the roof.”

So Wahid too had fallen prey to a spirit-Suresh who’d rendered him homeless. I nod sadly. “Rent is a curse.”

“A stain on the supernatural realm,” agrees Wahid.

I pause. “A pox on people.”

“A plague on paranormal society.”

I beam at him. “A blight on beings everywhere.”

“A curse on the cosmos.”

“Yes, I already said that.”

“No, you said curse. I then vastly broadened the scope by introducing the concept of a cosmos.”

I’m no longer beaming. “Yes, well obviously I meant cosmos when I said—”

“Hold on, you two,” says Sandhya quickly. “Wahid, when you say there are plenty more like you, you mean here? Around us?”

“Where else? If you lot only knew just how many of your fellow humans were a lot more than that, well . . .” He chuckles briefly. “But that’s enough about that, I’m not going to recite the history of every event to have befallen me since my . . . ah . . . departure, yes let’s call it that, that’s a nice way to put it.”

“So you can always recognise if a human is possessed by a djinn?”

“Can I? That isn’t half of it! I mean, I knew times were hard, but I had no idea just how many folk had moved here. Some you’d never have expected to see here either. Why, just the other day I saw, well, anyway, you wouldn’t know, would you, you don’t even know Wahid the Great.” He sniffed.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” says Sandhya. She sure cares about the vagaries of the djinn housing economy all of a sudden. Me, I have more pressing issues to worry about. Such as the housing economy here and the twenty-five lakhs that will prevent me from becoming Wahid 2.0, but without powers or the ability to possess anything. More like Wahid 0.02. Time to cut to the chase.

“So what do you want us to do?”

He beams. “Now. You’re talking. That’s simple. You’ll just need to find me a new host.”

“Come again?”

“A new host,” says the boy, speaking very slowly. “Look, I know you lot aren’t smart or anything, but this can’t be that hard to follow.”

“Why can’t you just find another for yourself?”

“Consent.”

“Huh?”

“Consent. Don’t humans have the concept? I need my new body to consent to me being there, or it’ll just be me forcing my will on whoever I inhabit, and let me tell you that never turns out well. I mean, look at my situation now. It’s not like one just takes over a body, you know? It’s a constant effort at collaboration, cooperation, you often have to discuss and negotiate. Not an easy task, no sir. I’ll need a body I can work with, one that’s suited to my personality.”

“Your personality. I see.”

“Yes, exactly. It’ll be easy as anything, I’m sure there’s no shortage of mortals desperate to share with Wahid the Great. Who wouldn’t want the benefit of my talents, after all, and mind you, I’m supposed to share them.”

“Supposed to?”

“Yes, by law. Djinn with hosts must compensate for the hospitality. If we don’t, well, we have to, there’s no choice. We can exercise discretion in the how, but we must compensate or else.”

“I knew it,” I mutter. “Rent is a curse.”

Sandhya rolls her eyes.

The boy seems about to go on, but then his face twists up, nose lurching about from side to side, eyes rolling violently.

“He’s coming back!” he shouts. He waves a hand, and the door flies open. “I’ll try and hold him off as long as I can. Get out, now! Hurry!”

We start moving towards the door.

“And don’t forget my new body! I’m counting on you!”

We get out of the door, and there I pause, glancing back at him.

“Cocksucker!” he snarls at me. The next moment a potted plant is flying at my head. I duck, and it smashes against the wall, sending earth and disemboweled flowers everywhere.

“Run!” I yell at Sandhya.

We race down the corridor and pound our way down the stairs and through the house, ignoring the screeches and banging noises behind us, not stopping till we’re back at the car, collapsing into the backseat next to the Duggals.

The iron gates to the compound are rattling. I can hear the screams all the way from the house.

Mr. Duggal looks startled. “What’s happ—”

“Drive!” I yell. “Drive! Now!”

Nitin hits the accelerator and we zoom off, screeching down Aurangzeb Road and back into the bustle of traffic, leaving the hideous house with its even more hideous heir in the distance.

• • • •

My cellphone is ringing. I glance at it, then set the ringer to silent and flip it back over on my desk, face down.

“Mr. Duggal again?”

“Who else?”

We’re back in my office-cum-flat, where I’ve been ever since we got the Duggals to drop us off and leapt out of the car, mumbling promises of how we’d get back to them.

“He’s been calling you for three days. Don’t you think you should answer it?”

“No.”

“You can’t avoid answering the phone forever, you know.”

“I can try. Anyway, I’m still not done trying to find a solution.”

“You mean a body.”

“It’s not a body if it’s alive, Sandhya. It’s a person. And you’re not being very helpful, you know.”

“Because you playing around on Facebook all day is helping?”

“I’m not playing, I’m recruiting. I’ve posted in job offer groups, Help wanted groups, real estate groups and even in one writing forum.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Way better than I hoped. I’ve had at least two dozen responses. Just let Duggal put down the phone and I’ll show you.”

We wait, and then when the ringing ends, Sandhya peers over my shoulder at my phone as I pull up the Facebook app.

“Okay, that’s quite a few.”

“And most of them have even posted their phone numbers. Time to start making some calls.”

“Who will you start with?”

“This guy here. Rahul Srivastav. Look at his profile picture. Smart, well dressed, and it says here he’s a financial expert specializing in investments. That’s just what we need, a career man with drive and verve. Could be just the match we’re looking for.”

I dial the number. Nobody picks up. I hit redial.

It rings for a while and then a bright, enthusiastic voice answers.

“Hi!”

“Am I speaking with Rahul?”

“Good afternoon, sir! Thank you for calling!”

“Hi Rahul, this is Zorawar Bhatia, calling from—”

“Are you a father or mother with kids?”

“What? No.”

“Looking for a secondary source of income?”

“Well, more like a primary source but here’s why I called, Rahul. You responded to my post on the Jobs For YOU Facebook page and so I’d like to discuss whether—”

“If you want to support your financial situation through binary, you’ve come to the right place!”

“What does that even mean? Am I speaking to a person?”

“Just contribute 5000 Rupees and within one week get back 15,000 Rupees guaranteed and tax-free!”

“I—”

“We also have a Special Offer Just For You! If you invest 50,000 Rupees you can take home over five crore Rupees within just seven days!”

I hang up.

“What happened?” asks Sandhya.

“He’s a scam artist. No matter, I’ll call the next one. Plenty to choose from.”

The next number turns out to be a woman who wants me to know I could make up to 3000 US dollars a day posting social media accounts. The one after that wants me to send him 25000 Rupees for a special shipment of a single bottle of Available For First Time Ever And Guaranteed To Work penis enlargement pills. The next two calls I make are both answered by Rahul again. The third one goes straight back to him too, only this time he’s also offering penis enlargement pills.

I start to throw my phone across the room and then I remember I can’t afford another. I toss it disgustedly on the table instead and turn to Sandhya. “Is everyone in Delhi a scam artist?”

“You’re sounding like an American tourist now. Maybe you should talk to him.”

“I don’t want—”

A dull banging sound interrupts me. I cock my head to the side, and we both listen for it, but just as quickly, it’s gone.

I turn back to Sandhya to finish my sentence.

“I don’t want penis enlargement pills.”

It sounds even more ridiculous without the immediate context of her question, but to her credit, she only smiles a bit.

“No, I don’t mean Rahul. Mr. Duggal. At least tell him.”

“Tell him what? That for some inscrutable reason literally nobody’s willing to sacrifice their body to free the djinn that’s trapped inside their hellspawn? It’s hopeless, I tell you! We’re fuc—”

The phone rings again. I sigh.

“Fine, I’ll tell him.”

I flip it over and hit a button. “Mr. Duggal! I’m afraid I have some bad news. You see, we—

“Duggal? Calling me Duggal now? I’ll give you Duggal, you ungrateful wretch!”

“Ma?”

“Ah, he remembers his mother’s voice. I should feel so honoured.”

“Listen, Ma, I can’t talk now, I have a client—”

“No, you listen, and don’t feed me your lies about clients! I need you to vacate the flat by tomorrow, OK?”

“Vacate the flat by tomorrow?”

“Yes, by tomorrow.”

“What? But, Ma, you said Sunday!”

“Yes, but that was long back.”

“Long back? It was yesterday!”

“Yes, anyway, doesn’t matter, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Changed . . . your mind.”

“Exactly. And stop repeating everything I say, Zorawar, you sound like an echo. Anyway, I’m giving it to Suresh’s friend, he’s increased his offer to 6000 but he wants it immediately.”

“But Ma!”

“Ma, ma, ma! You sound like a goat! It’s my flat and I can give it to whoever I want, can’t I? Yes, I can! And I’m giving it to Paras. He seems like a really nice young man, and unlike you, he has a real paying job. Works with a real estate firm. Duggal Enterprises, I think it was called.”

“Did you say Duggal?”

“Yes, that’s what it was called. Very good company, I believe the owners actually live on Aurangzeb Road or something. They have a beautiful house there, Paras was telling me.”

“Beautiful.”

“You’ve started repeating everything again, is it? Anyway, I already took deposit from Paras, so make sure you’re gone by twelve tomorrow, OK?”

“But, Ma—” I start, but she’s already hung up. I start to throw the phone across the room, then remember I don’t have the money for another so I toss it onto the desk in disgust.

“Well, we’re screwed now, aren’t we? She wants me gone by noon tomorrow. With nowhere to go. Me, her own flesh and blood!”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t go around boasting about that bit.”

“But what do I do? I have nowhere to go. I’ll be as homeless as that djinn if he left the hellchild’s body. And probably die faster because I don’t even have superpowers, like not freezing, and what, what is it?”

I stop because she’s clutching at me, positively quivering with excitement.

“I’ve got it.”

“Got what? The ague?”

“No, I know how to fix everything.”

“You do? How?

Sandhya’s eyes narrow, and now she’s smiling at me.

“You, of course,” she says.

“Me? What do you—Oh no! No way! Absolutely not!”

“It’s the best option.”

“It’s not an option! I’m not giving myself up to be some receptacle for a demon!”

“He’s not a demon, he’s a djinn. He was rather insistent on that point, if you recall”

“I’m still not doing it.”

“Because you’d rather freeze?”

“I’ll find another way.”

“No, you won’t. This is the only way we can fix this—and make some real money for a change. Money with which we can open a real office, in a real proper area, and open a real business with real prospects.”

“And you know all this because?”

“Because you heard the djinn. He can recognise other djinns. There’s lots of them. More streaming in every day, looking for compatible hosts. And a city full of unhappy people we can connect them to. Statistically, at least some will be rich, see? Rich enough to give us lots and lots of rupees to help them out. It’s not just win-win, it’s win-win-win.”

“Easy enough for you to say. You’re not the one who has to give up your body as to a dem-ah- djinn like a bloody supernatural guest-house.”

“Just think of yourself as a paranormal innvestigator then.”

I fall silent, musing at the injustice of it all.

“Oh come on, It’ll even mean you won’t need new business cards!”

And that’s when it hits me. She’s right. This really just might work.

Right then, we’re interrupted by my phone ringing. I look at it. It’s Ma again. She’s reconsidered! I knew it. She might be crotchety and mean sometimes, but a mother’s love always shines through in the end.

“It’s Ma”, I say triumphantly to Sandhya. “So much for this scheme of yours. Excuse me, I need to talk to my mother now.”

“Hi, Ma,” I say, answering the phone.

“Zorawar? I just called to say don’t forget my desk and chairs. Bring them before one, I have a kitty party to go to. Okay bye!”

There’s a click, and I’m left holding a phone on a line that’s almost half as dead as me on the inside.

This time I do throw the phone across the room.

“Good thing we cancelled the plan then.”

“Oh, shut up.”

We sit in silence for a while, while I go over scheme after scheme in my mind, each more guaranteed to fail than the last. Finally, my shoulders slump, I hang my head, and from that position I look up at Sandhya.

“Fine, I’ll do it. I hope you’re happy.”

“I am. And you’ll be too, trust me.”

“I don’t know about this supernatural matchmaking idea.”

“As opposed to the booming paranormal detection trade we just spent three months in? Think of it as real estate if it makes you feel better. We’re borrowing from our friend Mr. Duggal. Paranormal Properties—come to us, and no being will ever live rent-free in your head again. Even the ads write themselves.”

“I’m really glad you have this all figured out,” I say bitterly.

“Oh, I do now. All of it. “

“What do you mean?”

“There’s one little thing I’ve been wondering about this since the beginning and I think I’ve finally figured it out.”

“So now we go talk to the djinn?”

“No, now you call Mr. Duggal, tell him to get that twenty-five lakhs ready. Tell him we want it in cash.”

“Cash?”

“He’s a Delhi property dealer, what do you think?”

“Cash it is.”

“Also tell him we’ll be there to pick it up soon.”

“And then?”

“Then we go talk to that djinn.”

• • • •

We’re back in front of the World’s Ugliest House, exiting the sleek black car.

“Should I wait, sir, madam?” asks Nitin.

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.”

“Very good, sir,” he replies.

“Just a moment, Nitin,” says Sandhya.

“Madam?”

“I just had one quick question for you.”

“Yes, Madam?”

She leans forward, so her head is almost through the driver’s window. “How much did that priest pay you to say he was missing, Nitin?”

“Madam!”

She smiles. “It’s ok. I won’t tell your employer.”

She pauses. “Unless you lie to me, of course. Did he pay you to say he was missing?”

Nitin looks exceedingly unhappy. A bead of sweat appears on his forehead. His eyes flicker from side to side, like he’s looking for somewhere to run to, which is pretty silly, considering that if he really wanted to run away, all he had to do was hit the accelerator.

“No Madam.”

“Nitin. Do you want me to talk to Mr. Duggal.”

“6000 rupees, Madam. To say he was vanished and in case Mr. Duggal wanted me to file police complaint, to say I had done that also.”

Sandhya smiled with quiet satisfaction. “I thought so. Thank you, Nitin. You can go now.”

She’d barely finished the sentence before the car zoomed off with a screech, leaving behind a tyre trail and the smell of rubber. Nitin had been only too eager to comply.

I look admiringly at Sandhya. “How did you guess?”

“Well, there had to be some explanation for the missing priest. For one, his family didn’t seem too concerned, did they? Just said he was missing and that was it? I’m not that stupid, even if the Duggals are. Also, what happened to the body? There was no smell in the room, or anywhere in the house. Bodies rot. This one hadn’t. And Wahid didn’t strike me as the sort to be murdering priests anyway.”

“I’m so impressed right now.”

“Why, thank you, Zorawar Bhaitoa. Now, let’s go talk to our djinn, shall we?”

A few minutes later, we’re walking into the room with the levitating boy again. He sees us enter and immediately begins showering us with abuse.

“SJWs! Beta cucks!”

“Hey, Wahid,” says Sandhya. “If you’re in there, we need to talk to you.”

“Snowflakes!”

“Wahid?”

Once again, the face does its left-right-left quick march before settling into a look of equanimity. Wahid beams at us.

“Ah, you’re back. Finally! I thought you’d abandoned me. Wouldn’t be the first time a human’s been a disappointment, you know. Brought me a body?”

“Maybe.”

He’s no longer beaming. “Maybe? What happened to our deal?”

“It’s not a deal if only you get something out of it.”

“I saved you from Monty! Twice! Thrice counting just now!”

“After begging us to come back? I think not. You’ll have to do better.”

Wahid’s face falls. “Typical,” he mutters bitterly. “Just like a human to kick you when you’re down. And they call us djinn mercenary.”

“Who does?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “What does it matter? You’ll just use it against me. What do you want? Money? Jewels? Beautiful lovers?”

“You can get us those?” I hear myself ask.

“No, of course not. I mean, I could steal them, but I’d still need a body. But isn’t that what humans usually ask for?”

“Not these humans,” says Sandhya.

“Now hold on a minute,” I say quickly.

“He literally just said he can’t get them.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Excuse me, shouldn’t you be talking to me instead of each other?” says Wahid. “A little attention here, hello? Thank you. Now, what are your terms? What do you want from me in return?”

“Cooperation,” says Sandhya.

He eyes us suspiciously. “What does that mean?”

“It means that if we give you a new body, you’re going to help us find other djinn.”

“You wish me to point out others like myself to you?”

“Exactly.”

“Certainly not! You think I’d just betray my kind? My brethren? My very family? Just to benefit myself?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re right. But I want it known that I only do so reluctantly.”

“Well, we wouldn’t actually need you to out all djinn. Just the ones looking for hosts. And the ones who, like you, are trapped with incompatible hosts. And we’ll help them find a match . . . um . . . ‘better suited to their personalities,’ I believe the phrase was. And I’m sure you’d be pretty good at figuring that out too.”

“I’m good at almost everything. So I do everything? What do you do?”

“Put up with you. Think of it as the rent we pay if it helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Yes, rent is like that. So, do you agree or not? It’s this or Monty.”

There’s a long pause and then he sighs heavily.

“I agree to your terms.”

“So, we have a deal?”

“Yes, we have an accord.” He smiles. “Well, at least you’ll be a more interesting mind than most I’ve had to suffer with.”

“Yes, of course, your new host.” She points at me. “Here he is.”

The smile vanishes. “Oh.”

I’m feeling mildly insulted by the lack of enthusiasm, but I swallow my pride. “Yes, I’m game. I’ll be your host.”

“No, hold on. Is this really the best we can do? Is there no one else?”

OK, now I’m properly insulted. “What’s wrong with me?”

“What isn’t? I’m used to higher standards, you know.”

“Like Monty there?”

“Yes, take advantage of a poor djinn in a terrible situation. That’ll get you classified as a good soul for sure.”

“Hey, he’s not so bad when you get used to him,” says Sandhya. Even she’s miffed. The thought makes me happy at first, until I recall we’re literally negotiating handing my body over to a supernatural creature.

“So no deal? Ok, fine, we’ll just be off then.”

She turns, and I follow suit.

“No, wait!”

We turn back around, looking at Wahid.

“I accept your terms,” he says, somewhat sulkily. “Now, are you ready?”

“Yes. No, wait! You’re sure I can share space with you, right?”

“Of course.”

“And you being there won’t hurt or anything?”

“No, no, not at all. The pain will be all mine, I assure you. But this is how one learns humility, I suppose. As for you, you won’t want me gone. After all, I am Wahid the Gre—”

“Yes, yes,” I say hastily. “I get that.”

“Very well, then. We shall commence.”

The boy’s eyes roll over and over in his head, like marbles rolling down a slope. A strange blue light begins to build, bathing his face in an eerie glow.

“What the—” I say.

And as I do, a ball of blue light courses from the boy’s face, into my mouth. I can feel it, bouncing around my throat, like a gob of very warm rum.

“Oops,” says the voice of Wahid in my head. “Wrong turn.”

I feel the bouncing move upwards, back up my throat, through the roof of my mouth, and into the top of my skull, where it settles. Slowly it settles, leaving me with this slightly lightheaded, warm, fuzzy sensation, like I’ve just taken a big puff of ganja, and I mean actual ganja, not that crap Mathur sells me for ten bucks a pudiya.

“There we go,” says Wahid in my head. “Lots of empty space here, huh? Nice, I like it when there’s room to spread out a bit.” I can hear, no feel a wet, squelching sensation, spreading across the inside of my forehead.

“Here, what are you doing?” I ask

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m fine. We’re fine. We’re a team now, you see?”

“Zorawar!” cries out Sandhya, a warning note in her voice.

We look up, Wahid and I, together, as one, and see Monty, eyes looking normal, with an expression on his face ugly enough to have been part of the décor downstairs.

“Who the fuck are you?” he shouts. “Get out of my room! I’m calling the cops!”

“I’ve had enough of this brat,” mutters Wahid. And I agree.

We lift a hand, a shockwave leaves it, blasting the boy back onto the bed, where he bounces off the mattress and onto the floor.

“Zorawar!” says Sandhya.

“What did you do?” I yell at Wahid.

“Sorry,” mutters Wahid to me. “Just need to calibrate things a bit, shouldn’t take too long.”

“You killed him!”

As I say it, Monty jumps back up to his feet, face now contorted with rage. “Motherfuckers! Cocksuckers! Bloody jihadis!”

“Unfortunately not,” says Wahid.

“Cucks! Antinationals! Immigrants!”

“We’re leaving now,” says Wahid. And then, without words, I know what he wants to do, and I agree.

We reach out, grab Sandhya, and crash out through the window, with so much force the backdraft knocks Monty onto and off the bed again. And then we’re flying, through the window, soaring up and out. And we’re flying, soaring up, up, until we start slowing, and eventually stop moving entirely.

Now we’re falling, plummeting straight down, I can see Sandhya screaming, only I can’t hear her because I’m screaming louder.

Then with a gut-wrenching jerk we stop, a dozen feet or so from the ground, hanging in the Delhi air like noxious particulate matter.

“Oops,” says Wahid.

“The hell are you doing?”

“I think I’d like to walk,” says Sandhya firmly.

“Relax, relax, it’ll be fine,” says Wahid, as we begin to rise upwards again. “Told you, we just need some calibrations. Where to?”

“Home,” I think to him, and we veer off, over the gardens and Aurangzeb Road. zooming away from that hideous house and its awful occupant, sailing away across the sky and back home.

“Hold on!” yells Sandhya. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Home.”

“No, head to that hotel! We have twenty-five lakhs to collect.”

She’s right, so I bank left, towards a happier future.

“And after that?” asks Wahid.

“After that?” I echo.

Sandhya smiles. “After that we get to the good bit. We’re going to see your mother.”

“I thought you said it was the good bit.”

“It is. Because I’m going to tell her she needs to find a new cook. And then you’re going to tell her she can find a new occupant for that flat. There’s a great office space available for rent in Malviya Nagar, by the way.”

She smiles. “I made a call earlier. They’re expecting us tomorrow, to look over it.”

“You’re incredible,” I say.

“I know,” she says.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. I don’t know when I last felt this cheerful.

“Hey, Wahid,” I say. “How would you like to meet my mother?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Well, you’re going to.”

Still arguing, we sail away, across the smoggy sky.

And so that’s how I ended up with Wahid the Djinn living in my head. And the ability to fly, and shoot bolts from my fingers, and a whole lot else, including a new flat, office and career, and everything that came with them.

But that’s a different story.

©2022 by Shiv Ramdas.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shiv Ramdas is an Indian storyteller. His short speculative fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Fireside, Podcastle, and other publications, and has been nominated for the Nebula, Hugo and Ignyte Awards. He currently lives and works in Seattle, USA. You can find out more about him at https://shivramdas.net/ or find him tweeting as @nameshiv.

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

Hood Alchemy

Nicole D. Sconiers | 1504 words

You remember when those rappers robbed a bank and killed a cop, that summer the girls from Wing turned green? I didn’t think it was connected then—the robbery, the gold, and the hordes of teens who were rotting from the inside. But I know better now.

Back in the day, we thought anyone signed to a record label was rich. We eyed the expensive Fila sneakers and trunk jewelry and thought of new money. We peeped the shiny album covers in Funk-O-Mart, heard Jazzy Jill’s song “Money, Mics & Madness” blaring from passing cars, and thought of mansions, exotic places far from the tilting rowhouses of our town. It never occurred to us that most local rappers were broke. That the gold chains and leather jackets they flaunted in overly saturated music videos were most likely the only payment they received.

We dreamed of being hood rich. Of owning something tangible that elevated us above vanilla tubes of government cheese, cheap wicker furniture, and trash bags stuffed with hand-me-downs. We found that glistening deception in gold earrings.

Before the rampage of ruptured girls, when frenzied teens streamed into the night like venomous lightning bugs, we discovered how easy it was to own a piece of paradise. We put our aspirations on layaway. For two-hundred dollars, paid in four easy installments, you could own a pair of bamboo earrings or over-sized hoops bearing your name. Never mind that we were poor. Our delusions were sparkly.

We wanted to feel powerful, like the B-girls in Philly. Like Jazzy Jill, our hometown hero, who was our first longing. There weren’t many female rappers in 1986 and Jill knew how to rock a mic better than most dudes. A few years older than us, she was an unsmiling girl with a mushroom hairstyle whose clothes smelled like sulfur from the quarries of our mill town. The bluster in her lyrics didn’t match the yearning in her eyes. Jill caught the attention of City Dreams, a North Philly label that specialized in diss tracks. Once they signed her, she traded in her mushroom hairdo for a fresh asymmetrical cut and her smelly outfits for trendy kicks and glitzy jewelry. When we saw her onstage at the Carver community center, gold hoop earrings snapping in defiance as she two-stepped beneath hot strobe lights, we knew what we wanted to be. Superstars.

Cicely was the first girl from our town to put gold earrings on layaway. Dark-skinned with deep dimples and manufactured curls, she was the closest Wing had to a trendsetter. That April, she walked a mile to Hanz Jewelers on the east end, across the railroad tracks that divided the poor section from the just-over-broke side, where freight trains hauled anthracite and limestone from nearby quarries. Once in the store, Cicely slapped five sweaty ten-dollar bills on the counter. She was dating a drug dealer named Hassan, so it was easier for her to rustle up her payments.

Hanz imported gold from Canal Street in New York. Or so we thought. Four display cases housed glittering bamboo earrings. Heavy earrings shaped like pyramids. Thick hoops with intricate braided designs. Metallic manna from heaven for the hungry girl. For an extra forty bucks, Hanz would solder a strip across the middle bearing your name. Lisa. Desiree. Ailene. Such a small price to pay to own yourself.

When Cicely strolled up to the gate of the Carver in June wearing those name earrings, and hip-hop thumped from the open doors of the community center, seeming to envelop her in its muskiness and power, we went wild. If our classmate could afford lavish earrings, we could too. We were fifteen back then, so most of us were unemployed. But our never-ending pursuit of flyness made us crafty. We hoarded our allowance, carried dime bags for the dudes on our block, lied about our age to get call center jobs.

We didn’t want to be princesses. We wanted to be hard. We were smart enough to know no white knight would ever swim the moat or scale the tower for us, no fairy godmother would ever wave a wand and transform us into our highest, daintiest selves. We were the dragon chained up in the dungeon snorting fire.

During the summer of 1986, Wing crackled with gold hysteria. We congregated on benches at the basketball court, heads swinging in exaggerated movements to feel the heft and glide of metal against skin as we watched the game. We gathered outside the pizza shop, checking reflections in plate glass windows. We became daring. We took the train down to 69th Street in Philly, where prettier, bolder versions of ourselves window-shopped at Gimbels, gold earrings jangling. We flirted with strangers. Cussed out rude saleswomen at the beauty supply store. Watched grown men playing the shell game on cardboard boxes, trying to hustle us out of our hard-fought treasure. But we were too clever to fall for their con.

Flashy gold earrings made us worldly. We should have known that twinkling bridge to grandeur was not only rickety and deceptive, but dangerous. Cicely got sick first. Her earlobes grew ashy, then split. Her mom assumed this reaction was because her delicate lobes had not previously borne the weight of so heavy an adornment. Other girls took ill too. Desiree was alarmed to see a sickly green cast spreading over her brown skin. When I saw her pedaling furiously past the Masonic lodge in her velour short set, she reminded me of a giant beetle who had been relieved of her wings.

Many of my classmates developed oozing sores on their scalps. Some girls’ hair even fell out. Those unlucky souls wandered the streets wearing shower caps, looking like feeble astronauts navigating a hostile planet. One day in the bathtub, I was startled to see a grassy tinge creeping up my legs, a condition I hid from my mom. In spite of those bizarre ailments, we refused to stop wearing gold earrings. We had paid too much and gone too far in the pursuit of flyness to return to a common life.

Gold jewelry emboldened us but its caustic dust made us feverish. Reckless. Green and noxious like the breath of dart frogs.

We destroyed things.

We trampled gardens. Geraniums, zinnias, and marigolds were not safe from our cracked and leaking fingers. We smashed the basement windows of the Lutheran church on Cherry Street. Ripped the tire swing loose from its mooring in the playground. Since we could not assuage the fever in our brain, those petty assaults soothed us.

The town seemed oblivious to the horde of green girls terrorizing its streets. Our neighbors dismissed our behavior as acting “fast.” No one asked if we were hurt or needed protection. They assumed we were too ornery and strong. Police cruisers were a common sight in our neighborhood, rolling slowly down our block to keep us in check.

The gold sickness raged for months. The smell of rotting flesh battled with the sulfur smells from the quarry, bringing memories on the wind of our hometown hero. Jazzy Jill had not escaped the crush of teen caprice. Her one hit song tumbled from the charts. People moved on to a new female rapper, Sweet Tee. I don’t know if it was delirium or a fear of being common, but Jill did the unthinkable.

I was sitting in bed, putting lotion on my legs, which were a harsher shade of green by then, when I heard the breaking news on Power 99. Jill and two rappers from her label had bumrushed a bank in Philly. The silent alarm was tripped. An officer responded, gun drawn. Jill fired a semiautomatic, piercing the cop’s heart. He died on the way to the hospital.

I turned off the radio. Stunned by Jill’s descent into mayhem. How had she gone from rocking stages to pulling botched heists? Was it just about money? The need to feel opulent? I wasn’t famous, but gold earrings transformed my plain life into splendor. I knew how it felt to be powerful. Seen.

I snatched off my gold hoops, my constant, hollow companions. Who knew if they were even real or some virulent alloy? Coming out, the earring posts were sticky and smelled like rotten eggs. A thin band across the middle announced my name: Deandra.

I never wore the earrings again. I tried to warn my girls about the toxic gold but they frowned at my unadorned lobes. At school, Cicely and Desiree brushed past me in the halls, corroded shells of their former selves.

By the time the green hue faded from my legs, it was May of 1987 and we were leaving Wing, moving to Pottstown. As I packed, I heard the girls on my block racing off into the night. Inflamed. Viridescent. Fluttering like June bugs with no purpose or light of their own. After Jazzy Jill’s downfall, I hoped they’d awaken from their gilded dreams.

I’m still hoping.

©2022 by Nicole D. Sconiers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nicole D. Sconiers is the author of Escape from Beckyville: Tales of Race, Hair and Rage, a speculative fiction short-story collection that has been taught at colleges and universities around the country. Her work has appeared in Nightmare Magazine, Speculative City, Nightlight: A Horror Fiction Podcast, PodCastle, Lucky Jefferson, and other publications. Her short stories were published in the anthologies Black from the Future: A Collection of Black Speculative Writing, December Tales, and Sycorax’s Daughters, which was a Bram Stoker Award finalist. Ms. Sconiers currently resides in Pennsylvania, where she is working on a collection of young adult horror stories.

Nine Tails of a Soap Empire

Maria Dong | 5010 words

1

Byeong-Woo strides through the door. His face says I’m in trouble. Hopefully, it’s the delicious, sweaty kind.

I step forward and push into him, ready to embrace his flesh, his taste—but he becomes a mountain, still and immutable. I step back.

“We should talk,” he says.

Fine. I’m good at talk. I’ve known for a whole moon what he’s going to say, and I won’t change my mind. I gesture at the low table, the only furnishing besides the thin mattress in the corner. This sparseness is intentional; a reminder that I won’t stay here, that my resources are for other things.

He steps in, his robes flowing around him with the rustle of fine silk. He sweeps them behind like a peacock’s tail.

Silk pleases me, because unlike so many other fabrics, it always knows what it is and what it wants to be. It’s elegant, but stolid and dependable. It would be a good medium for small magics if I had the temperament to work with cloth, but I don’t.

Byeong-Woo crosses his legs and lowers himself to the floor. I sit, but not nearly so elegantly; I am, after all, not made of silk.

His face twists. He’s uncomfortable. I won’t rescue him by making this conversation easier.

“You don’t have to leave,” he finally says.

He’s wrong. I’ve never told him about the coal I swallowed three years ago, the way it has plagued me ever since. Some nights, when I’m trying to sleep, it burns like the feathers of the vermilion firebird, five-colored fury that threatens to turn me to ash. Other times, it is barely the faint warmth of a finger on a wrist, a flutter that could be drowned out by the pulse of a thumb.

But the coal is always lit. I am always hungry.

Byeong-Woo wouldn’t understand this. I picked him because he’s kind and logical. He’s never been filled with a hunger like mine.

I cloak my response in flowery platitude: “We can refuse anything, as long as we’re willing to suffer the consequences, but I’m not.”

As I said, I’m good with words.

“You have a nice life here, Seon-Ah.” He cups my chin and lifts it, as if that will make me change my mind. The pressure stretches the length of my throat, pulling at scars left by the coal’s passage. “You’ve accomplished so much. Keep it up, and you’ll be quite wealthy. Things are stable.” And then, “I love you. Can’t that be enough? Do you always have to capitalize on everything?”

His words are awkward, but his voice is like a teapot’s. A teapot is proud and sure of what it is, could never conceive of being anything else. When they speak, teapots are always refreshingly earnest.

But then comes that word, capitalize, like plunging into cold water on a hot day. I’ve never liked this word, have always felt something greedy and dangerous slinking between its syllables. Capitalize means to make the best of—but so often, to take advantage.

Are his words an accusation? True or not, it hurts that this is the way he sees me.

Perhaps I’m not as resolute as I thought. But this thing between us, it isn’t love. He feels longing and heat, feels confused by the machinations of a person so unlike himself and lulled by the safety of someone who sees him as he is. It’s close to love, close enough that were I a different person, I could take it and be happy for it.

But I’m not that person. I’m not a teapot, or potter’s clay, or the slow fragmentation of an ink stone. I’m a person of decisions, the kind of person that takes a very small magic and builds an empire out of it. It’s for this reason the Maripgan sent for me—and although not answering the summons would bring consequences, my greatest fear is not his wrath.

As soon as the Maripgan’s letter arrived, I was eleven again, bowing before a shaman who warned me a croaking voice that I would die young. Scrawled between the exquisitely refined characters of my address was a similar promise: if I spend ten or twenty or thirty years in this village, withering away, the coal will consume me from the inside.

I saw this before I broke the seal. And when the wax parted under my blade, the coal within me roared into a furious blaze, demanding acquiescence. Demanding change.

Byeong-Woo leaves, face tight, in a silence that mimics mine.

I feel grief, but there’s no other way this could’ve ended. This seed was sown when I swallowed the coal, and there can be no going back.

2

I have only a little beauty. Not enough to make something of it, which is why I’ve acquired empire through other means.

Here’s the thing about small magics: they depend on understanding the object you’re trying to shape, its true nature and what it wants. The potential of what it could be. Take, for example, a knife. Knives control. They want intention and permanence, and if not that, then sudden change. They dislike the liminal, the uncertain. You could convince a knife, if you were sure enough of yourself, to become a sword—but never a soap bubble, or a filigree chain, or a compass.

Every object is like this, full of secret desires, which is how I came to work with soap.

I’ve always been able to talk to soap, although I once found it distasteful. Soap, at its core, is empire. The fats of its base spring from violence. After harvest, it’s subjected to more violence, to boiling and a caustic lye that washes away all traces of blood and renders it into something homogeneous and translucently beautiful—although the slightest mistake here leaves a permanent scar. To talk to soap is to understand civilizing murder, to give voice to the normally silent cleansing of sin.

Three years ago, I was evicted from a hovel. Left freezing in each blast of wind. Men called at me for favors in the street, but I kept my honor close, as my mother had taught me, hoping it would sustain me.

It wasn’t my first time scraping through that space, but each round of poverty makes one more tired, less likely to claw out. I might be there still if someone hadn’t spat on me for the crime of being poor and hungry and asking to be otherwise.

I stood, the coil of their saliva trailing down my face, and decided this time was the last. I would have an empire. Soap was logical, not likely to be offended by the stolen funds needed to kindle my endeavors.

I asked the soap what it wanted, and it asked me for expansion, for violence that would never end. I asked a coal what it wanted: to consume something forever. I swallowed the coal, two birds with one stone—the violence of my never-ending consumption, now exchanged for empire—and got to work.

3

I started with two kinds of soap. For the first, I climbed a mountain and convinced the wind to shave off a small part of itself and bleed into my waiting basket. That soap is effervescent and cold. Bathing with it leaves even the tiredest person feeling invigorated.

The second kind was easier to make. I would’ve liked to use silk for the evenness it would’ve lent, but as I mentioned, I’m no good with textiles. In the end, I convinced a nine-tailed gumiho pelt to lend me some of its shine and combined that with the scent from a plum-blossom, and that was good enough. After many washes, the user becomes more beautiful, with skin as clear and ageless as new snow. The effect isn’t permanent.

I’d imagined the first soap, my mountain soap, to be in higher demand. It aligned so much more closely with my heart. With limitless energy, I could conquer the world.

But I’d been naive. Sales of plum-fox soap easily eclipsed mountain soap’s. Before long, there was no point in making it. I saved the last of the batch for my personal use and apologized to the wind.

• • • •

I stole money for the first batch of soap. Starved myself for a week to pay for the supplies for the second. Finally, I had enough coin to make another batch and feed myself. From there, I grew.

I bought properties. I hired employees, paid their slave-prices and set them free, sure of the good work their gratitude would bring. They boiled and refined and strained, so many batches of soap that the air glistened with vaporized fat. At night I let myself in with a key only I had and talked to the soap, weaving tales of violence.

Orders came in from all five directions. Before long, I owned my village.

If I thought of resting, the coal blazed like the roar of Baek-Ho, White Tiger of the West.

Feed me, it said, and if I hesitated, it filled me full of fear.

• • • •

The letter was hand-carried by a messenger clad in scholar’s robes. I broke the seal to find its first half was titles. Celestial Eminence. Fair and Radiant Child of Heaven. Despite the pulse of the coal, beating in synchronicity with my heart—doogoon, doogoon—my mind drifted when I first read the summons, too captivated by the paper it had been written on.

Made from the inner bark of the dak mulberry tree, hanji lasts a thousand years. It can be formed into a light, durable armor that repels arrows, or a window with wide fibers that allows the passage of light and air, or into wall-coverings that keep rooms comfortable in any season. It can survive underwater, undamaged, for a year.

This hanji was adorned with drawings of the four gracious plants—the plum, the orchid, the bamboo, and the chrysanthemum—elevating it to be worthy of the Maripgan’s summons. Long after I and the white funeral shroud that will one day cloak my body turn to dirt, this paper and its plants will remain.

Hanji paper is like a textile. I couldn’t hear its voice. But I could feel it, something golden and refined, and how desperately I wanted to know what it wanted, what it would like to become.

Perhaps this particular hanji wanted nothing. As a Maripgan’s summons, it might’ve been everything it could ever hope to be.

It took me many tries before I could stop thinking about the feeling of the paper under my fingers. The fine, dancing arc of the calligrapher’s brush. Only then did I come to understand its cryptic message: that news of my soap had reached the throne. My presence was required in the capitol.

It was not written that failing to appear would result in the separation of my head and neck, but I understood. Perhaps that was the small magic of this hanji.

There were three moons before the summons expired. At the end of the first, I had no choice to tell Byeong-Woo, who waited another before appearing in my door and asking me to talk.

4

A week later, the coal burns in my gut, anticipating our journey.

I long to travel fast and light, but the entourage is necessary. The mountain passes to Seoraebeol, the capitol, are haunted by peril. An entourage also honors the Maripgan and lowers the chances that his royal advisors will deem me feckless or my response to his summons lacking.

The number eight is lucky, so I bring my eight best assistant soap-makers and eight guards. Eight shamans to ward us from spirits; eight more to ward us from demons. We travel with eight stallions that carry supplies and eight mares laden with chests of plum-flower soap, the gumiho pelt buried under a secret panel in the bottom of one of the chests.

Already, the fox-fur has lost half its shine. I’ll have to find another, but it shouldn’t prove hard, as I’ve figured out the reason for my summons. The Maripgan sometimes orders those he wants close at hand to Seoraebeol and gives them posts inside the capitol.

I imagine legions of new customers, the power of my forthcoming post, and my mouth waters.

The soap reads my mind, chanting as we progress: empire, empire, empire.

On our trip, the shamans prove useful. We see the blue lights of dokkaebi fire, but the goblins do not approach, one-legged or otherwise, and although we often hear the keens of hungry ghosts, none cross the paths of our fires.

• • • •

Seoraebeol comes into sight at noon on the seventh day, but we hang back and camp in a valley outside the capitol’s confines, the birdcage-like frame that encloses the city gleaming under the light of the moon. None complain. We can sense how great our need for an auspicious arrival is.

I try to sleep, but the coal knows we are close, and it burns like liquor with each breath. I give up and pace the camp, weaving behind tents, listening to snores amidst the crackle of a fire that so closely mirrors the one in my stomach.

Something moves—gleams?—outside the camp’s periphery, but the fire has destroyed my eyes for the dark. I creep forward to the edge of the tents and sit until the pine forest climbs the mountains jutting up around us.

The gleam comes again. A pair of eyes, alight like the coal, embedded in a shadow that slinks through the trees. The pupils are vertical slits: a cat, maybe.

I clear my throat. My mouth is dry. “Here, kitty.”

A lightning-like flash of russet fox-tails, too numerous to count, and then the creature disappears, swallowed by the dark.

A gumiho.

I do not sleep that night, and in the morning, I don’t tell anyone what I saw.

5

I brandish my summons as the guards search us. They take our identification tags as collateral, assurance that we intend no wrong. The absence of my tag’s weight around my waist makes me entirely too cognizant of the cage around us and the way it blocks the sky.

Without our tags, we cannot exit Seoraebeol, much less cross through any of the checkpoints that dot the Maripgan’s domain. There are those that will brave a death sentence to fabricate a false tag, but I don’t have connections here.

Yet.

The guards take the hanji summons from my hand—and here, I cry inside. I don’t want to give it up, this thousand-year paper, this mystery that a life’s study might one day allow me to solve—but they won’t run the risk of me giving it to someone else.

When we’ve been stripped of anything threatening, the guards blindfold us and march us across the city. I don’t understand the need, but the sudden crush of noise that engulfs us is a wild thing without beginning or end. I stumble forward, focusing on a single sound at a time, marking my progress with the cries of a baby, with the dagal-dak of a trotting horse.

Eventually, our blindfolds are removed.

I cannot stop glancing around the throne room. It’s full of objects unlike any I’ve ever seen: silk folding screens made of gold and fine wood, a throne with abalone inlay, walls covered with sheet after sheet of fine hanji. I am rendered deaf and mute; I’ve never spoken with an object of this quality, which means I don’t know how.

Still, I close my eyes and listen, glad it is no longer dangerous to practice small magic in public view—too few left that can recognize its practice.

I expect silence, but the second I shut my eyes, my head is full of a roaring thrum: hungry, hungry, hungry.

I inhale sharply. The voices of objects are normally small, quiet things—and while this voice sounds like my coal, it isn’t. My coal answers, as if afraid: not here, not here, not here.

I don’t have time to figure out what this means before the Maripgan is announced and brought in on a screened palanquin. The hairs on the back of my neck all stand on end. It’s as if the air is full of a scent—and it is, perfumed by the boughs of maesil plum blossoms that a train of young men and women wave around me like fans, but this isn’t the scent that I speak of, the one that makes me feel like a deer in a tiger’s den.

Two attendants walk forward and pull lengths of curtain to the side, unveiling the palanquin’s contents. I take in the outfit—jade belt, flowing robes of floral embroidered silk. Long black hair, through which protrude two antlers of solid gold. My breath catches.

The Maripgan is a woman, and she is uncommonly beautiful.

She gives me a disdainful look; I’m staring. I collapse my body—legs, chest, gaze—down toward the floor, hoping my stunned impertinence hasn’t already signed my death warrant. I can hear my coal laugh, the whispers of the soap in the chests to either side of the room as they gossip about whether or not I’ve just brought violence down on myself.

And still, in the back of my mind: hungry, hungry, hungry.

“I assume you know why you’re here.” The Maripgan’s voice is unlike any I’ve ever heard, too smooth to be human.

I don’t answer, not until one of the attendants clears his throat and compels me to speak. “I am sorry, dear Lady—”

A hush echoes around the room, followed the angry clearing of throats. A man calls out, “Honorable Maripgan, I shall have her jailed immediately!”

I am afraid to lift my head, but then the room rings with the Maripgan’s laughter. It’s high and brassy, like the coal’s. “Oh, it’s not her fault, is it? A poor country bumpkin. Of course you don’t know the rules. You may gaze upon me.”

Another series of gasps. I grit my teeth and look up.

My insides turn cold. I cannot make out her pupils, but I know, suddenly, that they have turned to slits.

Sweat breaks out along my back.

“You see,” says the Maripgan, and she smiles, a mouthful of small, predatory teeth, “The Maripgan has no gender. I’m not male or female.” They lift their head to one side, preening like a fox. “I am only the Maripgan. I give you permission to use they, if you must, but you may also call me honorable Maripgan when addressing me directly.”

“Yes, honorable Maripgan,” I feel like I’m stuck on a rope bridge over a mountain pass full of screaming wind, each step both relief and portent.

“You’ve been brought here because you’re to be honored with a post.”

Despite my fear, my heart swells. With a post in Seoraebeol, I can grow my business to a size that will decimate all others. I’ll never be hungry or powerless again. “Thank you, honorable Maripgan.”

They nod, ever so slightly, and then they smile again, that chilling, perfect smile. “Yes. You’ll be my personal soap-maker. From this moment on, your residence is here, and all your soap mine. So, as you can see, it is you who will be a dear Lady.”

As the Maripgan’s laugh and the coal’s laugh mingle in my ears, I picture the cage around the city, the snap of the bridge under my feet. My heart breaks as I plunge into the abyss.

The Maripgan signals at an attendant. In the last flash I catch of them before the curtains close, I am sure their black hair shines orange-red.

6

My soap-makers and I are moved into a wing of the palace. We are given separate rooms for personal use, as well as a large shared workroom. We labor from twilight to twilight. Once each day, we comb through our stock for the most flawless bar, which we present to one of the Maripgan’s attendants; anything less than the pristine would sully their body.

I no longer pour the shine of gumiho fur into the soap, no longer sit with it and speak words of violence. I have no expansion to offer. The coal inside exacts its vengeance on me solely, a consumption that I most notice when I wake each morning.

After three days, I start to feel faint when I stand. After five, I need naps, stolen between batches.

It is on the eighth day that the coal in my chest speaks the truth, dispensing a realization I was too slow to come by: I am dying.

• • • •

The Maripgan sends for me shortly after sundown. The attendants that come give me a round, brown disk that I recognize—a wooden mask, the kind used in the dances that mark the weeks in villages all over the Maripgan’s dominion.

But which role have I received?

I flip it over and run my finger along the long, beaky nose and the drooping facial hair. It is the mask of a yangban: an aristocratic nobleman, portrayed as an ignorant buffoon.

One of the attendants brings her palms to her face. I put the mask on. She bows and leads me out of my room.

After a wordless gesture from the attendants, the guards outside the Maripgan’s chambers step aside, letting me in.

The fashion among some nobles is an elevated bed, but the Maripgan lies on a traditional quilted mattress on the floor. Yellow lantern-light shines off silk of many different colors, stacks of blankets and pillows limned in gold thread, but my eyes aren’t drawn to them or the Maripgan’s beauty.

Instead, my gaze trails to their legs. A copper-furred, white-tipped tail climbs from behind the curve of their knee, a snow-covered mountain in miniature.

My heart hammers. I collapse to the ground, crouching and frog-like, my voice muffled by the wooden mask. “Forgive, honorable Maripgan, I—”

“Do you like the mask?”

I don’t know what to say. “It is a very gracious gift.”

“Look up.”

The Maripgan rolls forward onto their belly, their long night-robes obscuring their tails—but I can see them flicking sinuously under the blanket. “Do you know why I picked the yangban?”

“I confess I don’t, honorable Maripgan.”

“The yangban assumes himself smart but is foolish all along. One marvels at the spectacle of an unknowing fool.” The tails slither under the silk. “Like a bold soap-maker that steals from a gumiho.”

My arms shake as I curl into myself. “I didn’t know, I—”

The silk rustles. When I look up again, the Maripgan has been replaced by a red fox, nine-tailed and massive, eyes glowing gold in the lantern light.

Despite knowing all along what the Maripgan is, their true form is a shock—the flicking of their ears; the long, pink tongue that creeps between their bared fangs like a prisoner. Their body coils as they get ready to pounce.

I blurt out a truth I’ve never revealed. “I have a coal in my chest, and it makes me hungry for an empire.”

The Maripgan stills. “What kind of coal?”

I look back at the ground. “One that will never go out.”

A long pause. “I see. Then, you’re like me.”

“How so, honorable Maripgan?”

Something signals to me, some whisper of the coal. I look up to see the Maripgan again coiling, like a snake about to strike.

“Hungry.” They lunge, red body streaking through the air like a comet.

7

They pin me to the ground. Their lips part, and the room fills with a soft, white glow. A shining orb floats out over their tongue—a fox bead, to drink away my spirit.

I close my eyes and ready myself for death. In that moment, I hear it again: hungry, hungry, hungry. “Wait—”

The orb slips between my lips, cool in all the ways the coal is hot. It burns the same.

The Maripgan drinks. My vitality tears away, muscles twitching and my heart racing as my body clings to my soul.

I flail inside of myself, listening, reaching for the touch of small magic, but there is nothing. Darkness spreads in front of me, rolling forward like a fog. Pinpricks of light sparkle, stars—

(You are dying, I am hungry, hungry, hungry)

—that rush together to form images. The splendor of a nine-tailed gumiho, creeping through a window. She drinks the soul of a man with two golden antlers—

(hungry, hungry, hungry)

Before she finishes, she is attacked by something riding on the back of the man’s spirit. It filters into her body like a disease.

Two flares of pain, bright as stars, as antlers erupt from her temples. A sudden appetite roars through her, the man’s burden becoming her own, she becoming they.

I am them, filled with want, with need. The need to consume, to capitalize—

(As if from deep underwater, inspiration flashes, as lazy and unpredictable as the wink of a firefly.)

I can help you, I think, and then the last of my life-blood ebbs, and everything goes dark.

• • • •

I don’t die.

I wake to the Maripgan, human-formed. I struggle to hold my eyes open. My head spins, bing-bing.

“I heard you,” they say. “How?”

Their brow lifts. Their lip curls up like an animal’s.

It’s hard to breathe, hard to make sounds. “Small magic,” I gasp.

They smile, their teeth shining like pearls. “I see. Like the soap.”

“Yes.” My face heats, and I feel faint. There isn’t enough life in my blood to sustain this sign of embarrassment.

“I’m getting bored. And I’m still hungry.” The Maripgan licks their lips.

“Right.” I close my eyes and hold my breath, and I can hear it again, the call of the antlers, broadcasting hunger like cymbals. Deprived of air, the coal flares angrily in my chest. It would be better, perhaps, to let the Maripgan drink my soul—better than a life driven mad by the coal’s whims.

But then I picture Byeong-Woo, his sad face, his rustling robes. The cold fingers of the wind prying back the collar of my hanbok, the way my belly stuck to my ribs those first months in the street.

There is a wetness on my face. Real? Or a memory?

I made my choice, then. I make it now—a gamble based on a vision. “Would you trade away being the Maripgan?”

They narrow their eyes. “In exchange for what?”

“For your freedom.”

For the first time, the Maripgan looks uncertain, but I hold fast. I’m good with words, and good with small magics, and even if that isn’t true, I won’t go back.

Finally, the Maripgan nods. “I would.”

I shift onto my side. My body aches in a thousand places. Whatever the gumiho did to me, it aged me, the wick of my life somehow shortened.

May it burn bright. I crawl to my hands and knees. “Come on.”

The Maripgan stands and puts on a robe without offering to help me. “Where are we going?”

“To make soap.”

8

The knowledge given to me in the midst of the vision fades away as quickly as it came. It seems my small magic isn’t enough; I still need that connection.

I boil water. I vaporize, I strain, I combine fat and lye—and in between each step, when I lose sense of the magic, the Maripgan steps forward and sips from me, re-establishing the connection.

I was already weak. I grow weaker, until I can barely lift my head. In the end, the Maripgan has to take over, preparing things according to my whispered directions.

Soap is empire, but I felt the Maripgan’s hunger. Can hear it, still, as the Maripgan shaves away a sliver of antler. Their tails lash and their shoulders stiffen—this pain must be even worse than swallowing a live coal—but they don’t stop or cry out. They want this as much as I do.

I speak to the piece of antler. As a fragment, its voice is different, thin and reedy—but still, it chants of its hunger.

“Be mine,” I tell it, “and I will feed you. We will rule—for I’m already hungry.”

I feel it reach inside me, probing like the fox bead’s pull—and then a release as it finds what it seeks. “It’s ready,” I say.

The Maripgan sniffs at the soap suspiciously. It smells a bit like frost, unless brought up to the nose—and then, even the perfume cannot mask the blood’s metallic scent. “Now what?”

I’m too weak to bow more than my head. “Now, we bathe.”

• • • •

Two attendants draw the bath, boiling water above giant braziers. They fan the smoke out the hanji windows, but still, I can smell burning. Perhaps it comes from inside me.

They leave when the bath is ready. We climb into the water. The Maripgan uses the soap first, as befits their station.

When it’s my turn, they watch me, eyes hungry, as I lather the soap across my skin. I can hear its whisper, empire, empire, empire. There’s a new note behind it, one that sends a shiver down my back.

The Maripgan closes their eyes. They reach up, grab the antlers, and pull—and they fall away, as easy as doffing a horsehair hat.

The Maripgan hands them to me. I bring them to my temples.

They tingle as they embed themselves into my skull. The coal in my chest roars to life, its voice competing with the antlers—hungry, hungry, hungry—but I’m not concerned.

I am the Maripgan. I’m empire. All the land I could ever hope to travel in my life is mine.

I hope I will not be a cruel ruler, but I don’t hope too hard.

I lean back and watch as a nine-tailed fox slips out the window, leaving me alone in the soapy bath.

©2022 by Maria Dong.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A prolific writer of short fiction, articles, essays, and poetry, Maria’s work is published or forthcoming in over a dozen publications, including Apex, Apparition, Augur, Fantasy, Fusion Fragment, Kaleidotrope, khōréō, Lightspeed, and Nightmare Magazine. Her debut novel, Liar, Dreamer, Thief, comes out from Grand Central Publishing in winter of 2023. Although she’s currently a computer programmer, in her previous lives, Maria’s held a variety of diverse careers, including property manager, English teacher, and occupational therapist. She lives with her partner and a potato-dog in southwest Michigan, in a centenarian saltbox house that is almost certainly haunted, watching K-dramas and drinking Bell’s beer. She is represented by Amy Bishop at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret. She can also be reached via Twitter @mariadongwrites or on her website, MariaDong.com.

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

All the Time We’ve Left to Spend

Alyssa Wong | 6748 words

When she got to Yume’s room, the first thing Ruriko did was slip off her mask and remove her prosthetic jaw. There was an ache in her fake bottom teeth. It was going to rain, although one look at the sky could have told her that.

Across the room, Yume dimmed the lights and sat on the edge of the coverlet. The bed was obscenely red, round and mounted on a rotatable platform, as one could expect from a pay-by-the-hour love hotel. Yume’s pale, gauzy skirt rode up her thighs as she shifted positions, and Ruriko wished she would tug it back over her knees. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Ruriko checked each of her false teeth, pressing a thumb over them to see if any had come loose—it was time for a hardware checkup soon—before clicking the prosthesis back into place. None of the actual teeth, or even the joints, were acting up. Some kind of phantom pain, then, from the flesh-and-bone jaw she’d lost ten years ago. “No, I’m okay.”

“I could put on some music.” Ten years ago, Yume Ito had been one of the four founding members of IRIS, one of the country’s top teen idol groups. Her face, along with Miyu Nakamura’s, Kaori Aoki’s, and Rina Tanaka’s, had graced advertisements all over Tokyo, from fragrance ads to television commercials to printed limited-edition posters. But then the real Yume Ito had died, along with the real Miyo Nakamura, Kaori Aoki, and Rina Tanaka, and now all that was left was an algorithm of her mannerisms and vocal patterns, downloaded into an artificial skin and frame.

“No music, please,” said Ruriko. Her voice sounded strange and small, but too loud at the same time. “Just talking.”

Yume, dead ten years, rested her hands on Ruriko’s shoulders. Her fingers traced the cloth mask that hung from one ear like a wilted flag. She tucked it back over Ruriko’s reassembled mouth. “Whatever you want us to do.”

Taking her hands, Ruriko steered her back toward the bed. She sat, and Yume followed.

The soft green pulse of Yume’s power source reflected off her black hair, tinting her skin with strange light. One of the room’s walls was an extended panel of slightly angled mirrors, and that green glow flashed back in every one of them. Muffled pop music thumped at the walls, but the soundproofing in the room was good. No one could hear the sounds anyone made inside here. And Ruriko had paid for two full, uninterrupted hours.

“Are you comfortable now?” said Yume. There was nothing shy about her. She wore the same kind, gentle patience that had made her face so arresting to watch on film, all those years ago.

They were alone now, one mostly flesh girl and one dead one immortalized in silicone and aluminum. But Yume’s hand felt warm, soft, alive. It was familiar down to the thumbprint-shaped birthmark on her inner wrist and the fine, thin scar across her palm from the time she’d sliced herself while cooking dinner for the younger members of IRIS. For Ruriko.

Ruriko rested her head on Yume’s shoulder and laced fingers with her former girlfriend. “Yume, what do you remember about our last concert?”

• • • •

No one in their right mind came to the Aidoru Hotel. But those who did always came for a very specific reason. Mostly, in Ruriko’s opinion, that meant a horde of superfans, otakus, and would-be stalkers who wanted a night to do whatever they pleased with the celebrity of their choice. The disreputable folks from Kabukicho who ran the Aidoru Hotel didn’t care, as long as their clients paid handsomely for the privilege. And Ruriko was paying, even with the family discount.

“I’m surprised you don’t come here more than once a month,” said Shunsuke. He waited for her by the lobby’s front counter, tall and handsome in his suit, briefcase in hand. He must have commuted straight from work. Their other friends had headed up to their rooms already to get hot and heavy. “I would, if I had connections.”

“Very brief, distant connections,” said Ruriko, shaking the rain from her jacket. Her hair was damp, despite her hood and ponytail. Water splattered the clear acrylic floor, and beneath it, the giant projected videos of pop idols’ top hits played in violent, frenetic colors.

Shunsuke slid his wallet back into his pocket. “They’re close where it counts.”

Ruriko joined him in the elevator, and together they ascended. She and Shunsuke had very different tastes and desires, but they both got what they wanted out of their visits to the Aidoru.

“You booked two hours as usual, right?” she said.

“Two and a half. It’s been a stressful month at work.” Shunsuke stretched. His empty left sleeve fluttered, pinned close to his chest in the absence of an arm. “Want to meet up later for ramen?”

“Sure. I don’t know how you’re hungry afterward, but why not.”

They’d made it something of a tradition over the past several months. As the elevator climbed, Ruriko thought of fresh tonkotsu ramen, the crush of bodies, and the warm reassurance of anonymity. She chose not to think about where Shunsuke was headed, or the contents of his briefcase, or any of his numerous distasteful habits.

The elevator halted, and Shunsuke got out. He cut a sharp silhouette against the neon colors vying for dominance on the hallway’s digitally projected wallpaper. “See you at ten,” he said, and the doors slid shut behind him.

• • • •

Miyu Nakamura tilted her head. Her hair fell across her shoulders in long, dyed brown curls, and she wore a pink pleated dress with a fluffy white petticoat. A different room, a different night, a different member of IRIS. “My last concert. The one in Shibuya?”

Ruriko remembered Shibuya. IRIS’s costumes had been white and pastel blue, with geometric wire overlays. She hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off Yume, whose long hair had danced about her waist with every precise, choreographed step. “No, the one at the Harajuku Astro Hall,” said Ruriko. “October fourteenth, 2014.”

“Oh, Harajuku! That’s not happening until next week,” said Miyu. The bed in this room was bright pink and covered in an alarming number of stuffed animals. There was barely room on it for either of them, even perched as they were on opposite sides. “We’ve been working on our routines since July, but Yume’s pushing us real hard. My legs are still sore from practice this afternoon.” She stuck them out, draping a coy ankle over Ruriko’s lap. Ruriko ignored it. “Wanna massage them?”

“Nice try,” said Ruriko. “If you’re a dancer, isn’t that something you should know how to do yourself?”

Miyu stuck her tongue out, but she started to knead her own calves anyway. “What kind of fan are you?”

“Just one who likes to talk,” said Ruriko. She reached over and took Miyu’s other leg, massaging it briskly. She’d done this for the real Miyu and the others, too, once upon a time. “Although I’m pretty fond of Yume.”

“Everyone is fond of Yume,” said Miyu. “She’s so pretty and confident. Mature.” Her voice wobbled a little at the end. “I don’t know what she sees in Rina. She’s basically the opposite of everything good about Yume.”

She had a point, Ruriko thought. Once upon a time, Rina Tanaka had been brash, even abrasive. Her integration had been a rough patch in IRIS’s history, and the real Miyu had made no secret of the fact that she didn’t approve of any newcomer, especially not some cocky hotshot from a bad part of town.

“Rina thinks she’s all that because she’s a good dancer, but she’s lazy. She comes to practice late, and she slacks off all the time. Worse, Yume lets her.” Miyu sighed and flopped back on the bed. A shower of plush creatures tumbled off the mattress around her. “I told her she shouldn’t play favorites because she’s our leader, but she told me to practice harder so I wouldn’t be jealous.”

Yume had never told Ruriko about that. But this was why Ruriko visited Miyu every time she wanted to feel better about herself.

“And I have been working hard on this new choreo for Harajuku. Do you want to see?” Miyu hopped off the bed and struck a pose, one hand on her hip, elbows angled out.

She had worked hard. Ruriko remembered that; dancing had always been Miyu’s weak spot, but the ferocity of her dedication had earned her Ruriko’s respect. Not that it mattered a few weeks later. But after one practice session, two years into Rina Tanaka’s career as the newest member of IRIS, Miyu had been tired of choreography—although everyone was tired of it except for Yume, who practiced religiously and with fierce dedication—and she had grabbed Ruriko’s hand. “Let’s go shopping,” she’d said, and Ruriko had been surprised, because Miyu openly disliked her.

But maybe something had changed between them. They’d worn cloth masks just like the one Ruriko wore now, and hoodies, and pretended to be sick all the way there so that no one would look at their faces. And no one had. The push and pull of the crowd, the crush of humanity, after spending so long in their studio hammering immaculate choreography into their bodies, had been thrilling. Ruriko had bought an ugly bear, too, and smuggled it into the studio to leave at Yume’s station. But she remembered Miyu’s smile—the first genuine one she’d ever seen on her face—as they snapped a selfie with their matching stuffed animals. She’d thought, Maybe I can do this. Maybe we can be friends.

Ruriko wondered how Aidoru had gotten its hands on this plush bear. Maybe there were closets full of duplicate bears, duplicates of all the rabbits and mascots and soft round things heaped up on the bed, just in case something happened to the original.

“Well?” Miyu sounded impatient, and Ruriko looked up. Sure enough, Miyu was glowering at her, a tiny storm rising on that perfect, adorable little face. Ruriko had never liked Miyu’s face.

“No. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” Ruriko added hastily, seeing how crestfallen Miyu looked. “I’m going to watch the broadcast live. It’s more fun that way.”

Mollified, Miyu flopped down next to her. One of her pigtails trailed across Ruriko’s legs, and Ruriko picked it up. “I guess that makes sense. Too bad! I love sneak peeks.”

She always had. That night at the Astro Hall, she’d burst into the dressing room, full of glee. There’s a giant light display above the stage! Four giant screens, corner to corner, so everyone can see us dance! Ruriko had come in later than usual that day, and she hadn’t gotten a good look at the setup during their abbreviated tech rehearsal. None of them had realized, at the time, how heavy those screens and the rigging that came with them were.

“Hey,” said Miyu, and her voice was soft, almost gentle. This Miyu, thought Ruriko, still wore the original one’s insecurity. “Would you brush my hair? I feel a little unsettled today. I’m not sure why.”

So did Ruriko. She glanced up at the clock mounted on the wall. Forty-five minutes left. And then this Miyu would go back to being alone, waiting in this empty hotel room, with no memory of their conversation. “I can do that,” she said quietly. “Hand me the brush?”

The back of Miyu’s plastic hairbrush was covered in fake rubber icing, piped into a heart shape and decorated with fake rubber mini-pastries. Rhinestones dripped down the handle and dug into Ruriko’s palm.

Miyu’s hair felt like the real thing. When IRIS was younger, she used to make the others help her fix it. If you don’t, I’ll fuck up the back, she’d said every time, and every time, she was right. Ruriko remembered, every night before a performance in a strange new city, helping Miyu roll her hair up into curlers and fix them in place with strawberry-shaped Velcro patches.

This fake Miyu probably had fake hair. Maybe, Ruriko thought, it was real human hair—not the real Miyu’s, but some other girl’s, shorn and dyed to suit a dead idol’s image. She wondered where those girls were now, how old their hair was. She wondered how hard it was to wash blood and other fluids out of synthetic wigs, and if someone had given up and sought a more human source to solve their human problem.

A finger tapped her hand. When Ruriko met Miyu’s eyes, the smile on Miyu’s pink-glossed lips was a little wicked. “Hey. You should really come to Harajuku next week and see us live. It’s gonna be big, and you won’t want to miss it. Especially not if you’re a fan of Yume’s.”

“Maybe I’ll come see you, too,” said Ruriko, brushing the hair with steady, even strokes. The painful hope in Miyu’s eyes dug at her own guilty conscience, and she found herself brushing harder, faster, even when the strands of beautiful chestnut brown hair began to come out.

“Look at that,” said Shunsuke as Ruriko exited the elevator doors and blew into the lobby. He was watching the music videos playing beneath the acrylic floorboards. “Look at me! I’m so young.”

There were little pale pink pills of synthetic fur stuck to Ruriko’s sleeve, tangled among stray bits of hair. She picked them off furiously, tossing them into the air, where they wafted aimlessly away. “Who?”

“Me. Rina, look at this.” He grabbed her arm, and she seized his wrist with her other hand so hard that he looked at her with alarm. “Shit, what’s your problem?”

“Don’t call me Rina. It’s Ruriko.”

Shunsuke let go. “Right. Now it is. I forgot.” He pulled back and scratched his neck; beneath his well-shined shoes, his teenage self writhed in high definition. “I’m guessing it was a bad night for you.”

Seeing Miyu always left a complicated taste in her mouth. “Buy me ramen tonight,” she said. “Tonkotsu, extra pork.”

Shunsuke, to his credit, made good. He didn’t complain when she took the seat closest to the stall’s far wall, either, even though that was his favorite place to sit. “You know, in all the months we’ve been coming here, I’ve never seen you order anything different,” he said. “Always tonkotsu, maybe extra pork if you can afford it after blowing all your money at Aidoru.”

Don’t get your hopes up, Ruriko had told Shunsuke after their first post-Aidoru dinner, nine years and two months after the Harajuku Astro Hall catastrophe. The hotel had been open for just a year under her family’s management, and she’d already been feeling raw over one intrusion into her past. And then there was Shun in the lobby, so slick and confident that looking at him made her teeth hurt. I’m not planning on fucking you.

Good, he’d said, offering her his lighter. It’s mutual. He’d kept his word, and so had she, and after a career spent under public scrutiny, that pressureless friendship had been a relief. If they had tried this ten years ago, Ruriko knew it would never have worked.

“There’s nothing wrong with having a favorite,” said Ruriko, chasing one of her last bamboo shoots around her bowl. “You’re nothing if not consistent yourself.”

“I order something different all the time.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Ruriko nodded at Shunsuke’s briefcase.

He grimaced and kicked it farther under the bartop. The metal buckle caught a stray pocket of light and flashed back into Ruriko’s eyes. She caught sight of a tuft of short, bleached blond hair snagged on the briefcase’s lock before it disappeared behind Shunsuke’s legs. “But the same kind of ramen! That’s so boring. Don’t you ever want to try something new?”

“No.” It was true; sticking to a very regimented schedule was something Ruriko hadn’t been able to shake, even a decade after her dancing days were over. All she needed for her graphic design work was her computer, her tablet, her notebooks, and the comfortable nest of books and pillows she’d built for herself. She exercised alone in her apartment, and groceries were delivered to her door. Ruriko kept mostly to herself these days, and she had little desire to leave the small, ordered world she’d so carefully constructed. Shunsuke and the other Aidoru regulars might well be psychopaths, but they were also the only other humans she saw on a regular basis.

Shunsuke, Ruriko amended as she watched him drain the dregs of his spicy miso ramen, was definitely a psychopath. But he was self-contained. There was only one person he ever hurt, and visiting Aidoru helped him deal with that.

Shunsuke set down his empty bowl. His wristwatch slid forward, baring a tangled mass of flattened scar tissue before his sleeve slipped down to cover it. “Let’s get drunk,” he said, and Ruriko had no objection to that.

Three and a half beers later, Ruriko was back on the Aidoru Hotel’s booking website, scrolling over Yume’s face. There was a menu on Yume’s main page (Group IRIS, 154 cm tall, 49 kg, black hair, B cup, brown eyes, active 2011-2014), and when Ruriko tapped on it (as she always did; how many times had she been here before?), a dropdown list of dates and times unfolded beneath her fingers. A list of all of the original Yume’s data scans and uploads, from the first time she’d let the talent management agency scan her memories and impressions (as they all did; how many times had they been told it was a contractual necessity?) to the last time, and every week in between. She scrolled all the way to the end of the list, to the last available entry.

October 8, 2014.

She slammed her phone down. “God fucking dammit!”

Shunsuke peered over at her. “Careful. That’s how you get cracks in the screen.”

“I don’t know why I keep coming back,” Ruriko said into her hands. “I know it’s fake. I just—God. I keep hoping that someone will find and upload another entry. Just a couple more days’ worth of data. A couple more memories. Just a little more time.” Bitching with Kaori about their talent agency, loitering in the park with Miyu. Yume’s voice in her ear as they stood together on the subway platform, waiting for the last train of the night.

Shunsuke rested his palm on her shoulder. His touch was unexpectedly gentle. He didn’t tell her what they both already knew. “Let’s get you home,” he said instead.

• • • •

“I wish they’d get their shit together,” said Kaori Aoki. “When they fight, it affects us all. Yume works us harder; Rina skips out on responsibilities. But something must have happened, because Rina stormed in late today and Yume’s not talking to anyone unless she’s barking orders.” She sighed, scratching her short-cropped hair.

Two days ago, someone had offered a bootleg copy of what they claimed were Kaori Aoki’s last memories, recovered from some ancient talent agency database, to the Aidoru. Ruriko had swallowed her disappointment—why Kaori? She didn’t care about Kaori, not the way she cared about Yume—but demanded that her family purchase the upload anyway. It probably wasn’t legit, but . . . just in case.

But the longer she spent in the room with Kaori, the more the memories seemed to check out, and the more terrible hope rose in Ruriko’s chest. If it could happen for Kaori, then maybe it wasn’t impossible to think it could happen for Yume, too.

“We’re running out of time before Harajuku, and their bickering is so petty,” said Kaori. To this version of her, the fight between Yume and Rina had occurred just that afternoon.

She was right. It had been petty, most of the time. But this latest fight hadn’t been. Ruriko had kissed Yume in the studio, when the two of them were alone, and Yume had freaked out. Not because she didn’t want to be kissed. Because Ruriko had done it in their workplace. What if someone saw? Yume had demanded. The wild, panicked, accusing look on her face had stabbed Ruriko straight in the heart. You could ruin both of our careers!

“She doesn’t like the costume,” Rina muttered. “I didn’t like it either.”

Kaori raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “No one likes the costumes. They’re always terrible, this time especially. But we wear them anyway, and they’re never as bad as they look at first.” She headed for the dresser and began digging through drawers. Stockings, lingerie, and compression tights fluttered to the carpet. “What they need to do, in my opinion, is kiss and make up. Or make out. Whichever one helps the most.”

Ruriko’s head jerked up. “You think they’re together?”

Kaori laughed. “Everyone knows. They’re so obvious. Even Miyu knows, and she’s in denial because she’s half in love with Yume herself.”

Ruriko’s stomach turned and she sat down, hard, right there on the floor. They’d fought because Ruriko had wanted to tell the rest of IRIS about them and Yume hadn’t. The media would have eviscerated them. Ruriko hadn’t cared.

The last thing she’d heard, before she’d turned on her heel and stormed away, was Yume shouting, How could you be so selfish?

Yume had forbidden her to tell anyone anything. So Rina hadn’t. Rina stopped talking to her groupmates altogether, and the frosty silence had carried over on the train to Harajuku, days later.

Kaori gave up on the dresser and threw open the door to her walk-in closet. The racks were a riot of color, stretching back like a long, awful throat made of bold metallic dresses and gauzy floral prints. Every costume she’d worn onstage, arranged by year instead of color. A fan’s paradise. “It’s gotta be in here. Hang on.”

“Please don’t,” said Ruriko. Her voice came out strangled. The closet stank of bad memories; just looking at the costumes made sweat gather in her palms, at the small of her back, her heartbeat galloping into her throat. But Kaori was already rifling through them, humming one of their songs under her breath. Ruriko could only remember half of the notes; the melody in her head was distorted, like trying to listen to music underwater.

Kaori emerged, flourishing a silver dress with a stiff, flared skirt. “Look, I found it! Isn’t this terrible?”

“It’s really bad,” mumbled Ruriko. The second-to-last time she’d seen that costume, she’d thrown it in Yume’s face.

Kaori pressed it against Ruriko’s chest. “Here, try it on. It is so uncomfortable, you will not believe it.”

Ruriko should have said no. But all she could think of was how she had screamed at Yume, sending the dress flying in her face like a giant bat. If she could have taken it back—if she could take any of it back—

Something must have been wrong with her head, because then she was stepping out of her jeans, and Kaori was zipping the dress up behind her, all the way to the nape of her neck. It didn’t fit properly; their bodies weren’t the same shape, and where Ruriko was small and soft, Kaori was tall and toned. This version of her, seventeen years old and programmed with a new set of memories—October twelfth, two days from IRIS’s amputated future—was full of tomboyish energy and excitement.

“See, I told you. But you actually look pretty good in this,” said Kaori, turning her toward the mirror. They stood side by side, Ruriko pinched into a dress that was too tight in the waist and too loose in the bust, Kaori comfortable in shorts and a light blouse. The dress gaped open like a loose flap of skin over Ruriko’s breasts. None of it fit, and it was hard to even look at her own body.

And then Kaori tapped a panel on the wall, and music blared into the tiny room. Synth vocals over a pulsing beat, four voices in one.

The Aidoru Hotel vanished. Ruriko was back there, standing on that slowly rising stage, her eyes wide in the dark, the ceiling of the Astro Hall soaring high above her in perfect geometry, her high heels already pinching her feet with two and a half hours left to dance, empty palm aching to hold Yume’s hand, mouth still angry, both at Yume and at herself for not being able to get over it, waiting beneath that teetering lighting grid, waiting for the tech cue to start the third song, waiting—

“I can’t do this.” Ruriko’s hands scratched wildly at the dress, hunting for the zipper. She couldn’t reach it, and she thought, wildly, What if I am stuck in this forever? “I can’t, I can’t—”

The music cut off and her ears rang with silence. Hands found her and unzipped her quickly, and Ruriko sagged with relief. “Are you okay?” asked Kaori. Looking at her, Ruriko saw, instead of her wide, earnest face, a mess of dark hair spilling out from beneath two tons of metal, and sharp, shocked shapes of blood splattered across the stage.

“I don’t think so,” Ruriko whispered. She couldn’t be okay, not if she was paying to destroy herself, over and over every month.

Kaori pulled her into her arms and held her tight. They stayed like that until Ruriko’s two hours were up.

Ruriko was still shaking as she boarded her train home. Her phone rattled in her grip. But by the time the subway reached its next stop, she had booked and paid for her next appointment at the Aidoru.

• • • •

“This is going to sound rich, coming from me,” said Shunsuke, “but you need to learn to let things go.”

They stood on the balcony of Shunsuke’s apartment, smoking together and watching the rain pour down in great sheets. The brilliant multicolored lights from all the signs and ads and cars zinging by became patchy and blurred, doubled and strange, in this weather.

“Sure I do. Speaking of, how’s that new dry cleaner working out for you?” said Ruriko.

“He’s great. He never asks any questions.” He cut his eyes at her. “I’m serious. Those girls can’t remember anything. They don’t even know who you are.”

“They can’t remember,” Ruriko mumbled, stabbing out her cigarette. “But I can’t forget. I don’t want to forget.”

“You know what always helps me,” said Shun, and Ruriko hated him for what he was about to say. “Cutting right to the heart of the problem. And you’re the heart, Rina-ko. Not them.”

She flicked the cigarette off the edge of the balcony. Its dying ember flickered in the air, fluttering downward before disappearing into the night.

“You can finish this. You’ll never have to go back again.”

She whirled on him, anger flaring bright in her. Shunsuke always acted like he had everything figured out, with his sly voice and dry cleaning and neat little suitcase. “Does it feel good to lie to me?” she snapped. “Is that why you keep coming back to Aidoru, Shun? Because you’ve excised the heart of the problem?”

He stared hard at her and turned away. Ruriko bit her lip to keep any more of the venom bubbling up in her mouth from spilling out.

Looking at the tall, lanky shape he cut against the sky, she realized how different he was from when she’d seen him the first time, over ten years ago, surrounded by the other members of his group. He’d been small back then, with bleached blond hair, and in the decade following his own accident, he’d grown into himself and left his gangliness behind. He was sharper now, harder. And there was only ever one room that Shunsuke visited at the Aidoru, only ever one person.

“Do you ever talk to him?” she said at last. “When you go to see him?”

Shunsuke passed her another cigarette. There was still synthetic blood on his sleeve, a dark, thin stain running toward his wrist. “What would we have to talk about?” he said.

• • • •

Cutting right to the heart of the problem, Shunsuke had said. As if it were that easy. But he’d opened his suitcase and pressed a bright switchblade into her hand before she left, folding her fingers over its polished wooden handle. Trust me. It’ll feel better afterward.

People came to the Aidoru Hotel for answers. Therapy, excess, an outlet for stress. To sate obsessions. If the Aidoru could help someone as fucked up as Shunsuke, Ruriko reasoned, then surely it could help someone like her.

The overwhelming roar of pop music threatened to crush her down into the plush, ugly black-and-white hallway carpet. Upstairs and downstairs, people were already fucking TV personalities and musicians long dead, and somewhere else in the hotel, Shunsuke was about to take his bright knife to his younger self’s skin. But Ruriko stood alone outside a room she’d paid for, Shunsuke’s borrowed switchblade in her pocket, too afraid to touch the door.

You already spent your money, said a voice in her head. It sounded like hers, but off, the way recordings of her own voice always sounded. A room here is expensive. Don’t waste it.

It’ll make you feel better, said Shunsuke’s voice. Trust me.

The only person you think about is yourself, whispered Yume. Fix that, and then we’ll talk.

No one in their right mind came to the Aidoru Hotel, thought Ruriko, and she gripped her key card tight and reached for the lock.

The door slid open on its own, and Ruriko’s hand leaped back. A dark-haired girl peered at her from inside the room, one hand up to shield her eyes from the bright cacophony of pop music. She was the same height, the same build as Ruriko, if ten years slimmer and younger.

“Are you going to come in?” said Rina Tanaka. “Or are you going to stand in the hall all night?”

After a moment, Ruriko tucked her key card back in her jacket pocket and followed her inside. Rina’s room was all dusty violet, the color of her childhood room. The lights were dim, and Rina slid the switches up, making the room brighter. The wallpaper glinted with silver interlocked triangles, and they winked viciously at her as she passed.

“I was wondering when you’d stop by. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Ruriko studied her, hiding her nervousness behind her mask. Rina looked about seventeen and had the same angled haircut that Ruriko remembered getting in September, right before the show in Shibuya with the powder-blue uniforms. “How did you know I was coming?”

“Your friend told me. He’s been visiting me for a while. Paid for memory retention services and everything.” This was Rina minus her stage persona, rougher than the other girls in IRIS, always a little too honest. In her voice, Ruriko heard the hints of Kabukicho that she’d spent her life trying to erase. “He said a woman with a red face mask would come by because she wanted to talk to me about something, but he didn’t tell me what it was. And you’re the only woman with a red face mask I’ve seen so far.”

Shunsuke had set this up for her. Ruriko’s hands shook; she kept them tucked in her pockets. The knife burned in her pocket. He’d probably meant it as a gift.

“Hey, you’re from Kabukicho too, aren’t you?” said Rina. She smiled. Ruriko had had that smile once too. “So who are you? What did you want to tell me?”

“You’re going to let her die,” said Ruriko, the words tumbling out past her clenched teeth. “At the Astro Hall.” She had Rina’s full attention now. And in that face, Ruriko read what she’d known was there—the anger, the fear, that she remembered having before they set out for Harajuku. “The lighting grid is faulty, it fell, and it crushed everyone. Yume—”

“Stop it,” Rina said tightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her eyes were overbright, her voice too high.

Ruriko grabbed her by the shoulders. “She died. You killed her, because you were a selfish little shit, you showed up late because you were sulking and wanted to make them miss you, there wasn’t enough time to run a tech rehearsal, they would have caught it—”

“I know!” Rina pushed at Ruriko, but Ruriko held on. Tears brimmed in Rina’s eyes. “Fuck! I know! I remember. Did you think I’d forget?”

Ruriko’s grip was so tight that her fingers were starting to hurt. “What?”

“I was an idiot. I thought—I was so mad. I was so upset at her. I thought she’d dump me for sure after that.” Rina’s tears splattered onto Ruriko’s arms. She wasn’t pushing her away anymore; she gripped Ruriko’s shirt. “I wanted to make her hate me. I wanted to make her pay.”

She had wanted that. And Yume had paid. But Ruriko’s head was reeling, and she shook Rina. “What day is it?” she demanded. “What’s the last day you remember?”

“October twenty-fifth,” whispered Rina. “I woke up in the hospital. The people from the talent agency were there. They said they’d scanned me while I was out. They told me I’d never dance again. Everyone else in IRIS was dead, and if I knew what was good for me, I’d pretend I was too.”

She’d forgotten. Ruriko let go of Rina. She’d forgotten about that last scan; those days were a blur of grief, horror, regret, and it hadn’t seemed important in the wake of her loss. Yume was gone.

“I could have saved her,” said Ruriko. She felt numb. She’d been so stupid. “She was right. How could I have been so selfish?”

“You?” A look of terrible revelation crossed Rina’s face. “What’s under this mask? Who are you?” She reached out toward Ruriko’s mask.

Ruriko shoved her away as hard as she could. Rina stumbled back into the small wooden vanity parked against the wall. “Don’t touch me,” Ruriko said hoarsely. All their collective secrets were spilling into open air.

“Please,” said Rina, but Ruriko backed away. Her awful synthetic body with its awful synthetic skin and awful synthetic youth, its face twisted with regret but still whole, made Ruriko sick.

She turned and fled the room. She was in the elevator and through the lobby and out into the street, fifteen minutes into her two-hour time slot. She didn’t ask for a refund.

• • • •

It took a long time for Ruriko to come back to the Aidoru. But when she did, there was only one door she gravitated to.

“Does my face scare you?” said Ruriko.

Yume glanced over at her. They lay together on the red circular bed in her room, side by side, their hands just brushing each other. One of them had accidentally hit a switch to make the bed rotate, and they hadn’t been able to figure out how to turn it off, so they turned slowly together, their feet dangling to brush the floor.

“No, of course not. You had reconstructive surgery, right? It looks really natural.”

The red cloth mask was wadded up in Ruriko’s other palm. How many times had this Yume seen her face? How many times had she asked her the same questions, aching to hear Yume’s affirmation, over and over again? How much did it hurt, knowing that Yume couldn’t blame her for what would happen, what did happen in Harajuku, because she would never know who Ruriko was?

Impulsively, Ruriko sat up halfway, propping herself up on her elbows. “You know, some people have said I look like Rina Tanaka. What do you think?”

Yume took a moment before she replied; perhaps her internal algorithm was searching for a tactful answer. “Maybe a little,” she said at last. “Your eyebrows. Very Rina Tanaka.”

Ruriko laughed. She’d thought she’d be injured by that response, and she was surprised and pleased to find that she wasn’t. “That’s more than I thought I’d get. I’m surprised you saw any resemblance; you spend so much time together, I bet you know her better than most people.”

“I’m seeing her later tonight,” Yume said, looking slyly at Ruriko. “We’re going to hang out after evening practice. She promised.”

A luminous feeling spread through Ruriko’s chest. She settled her head back on her pillow and stared up at the mirrored ceiling, thinking. What had they done the night of October eighth? It hurt that she couldn’t recall all the details; they’d blurred at the edges over the years. But she remembered that it was cold already, unseasonably cold, and she had dragged Yume to the park to get ice cream anyway. Yume had been worried about getting sick in that weather. And then Ruriko had grabbed her by the scarf and kissed her to stop her scolding.

“For ice cream?” she said.

Yume turned to look at her, her hair falling around her like a curtain. “That’s a good idea. I was thinking about getting ice cream.” She reached out to touch Ruriko’s face, and this time Ruriko didn’t pull away. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “You do remind me a bit of her. It’s your expressions, your mannerisms, the way you talk. You’re different, but maybe you could be her cousin.”

She grinned and leaned in to Yume’s touch. Her fingers felt warm, real. “I guess I’m lucky.”

“You are,” said Yume, tracing the line of Ruriko’s face, all the way down her jaw. Her touch was tender instead of sensual. “But don’t tell her I said that. I don’t want her to get a swelled head.” She shifted on the bed, and her skirt whispered around her. “You know, it’s complicated. I want her to think I’m responsible. I’m her senior, and I’m supposed to look out for her. But at the same time, I want to spoil her. There’s just something special about her; it makes me determined to show her that all her hard work is worthwhile.”

“She loves you,” Ruriko said. She still did. “That’s why she works so hard.”

Yume glanced at her, surprised. Ruriko expected her to deny it. But instead, gentle pink spread across her cheeks. “Is it so obvious?” she asked.

Ruriko smiled up at her. “Only to the people who matter,” she said.

“She has a lot of growing up to do. But she’s a good dancer. She’s full of fire. She’s . . . beautiful.”

“Maybe you should tell her that more often.”

“I’m only telling you this because you’re Rina’s cousin.”

“Oh, so it’s decided now?” She swatted Yume with a pillow, and Yume yanked it away from her and tossed it across the room. “If you could,” Ruriko said, much more quietly. “If you could be with anyone, would you still want to be with her?”

Yume hesitated and looked away. “Could we talk about something else?”

Uncomfortable, familiar disappointment settled in Ruriko’s chest. But still, she thought, this was the closest Yume had ever come to admitting to Ruriko that she’d loved Rina. She’d said as much in private, many times. But maybe telling “Rina’s cousin” was the closest she’d come to speaking it aloud in public. “Anything you want,” she said.

She smiled and patted Ruriko’s hair. It was an impulsive gesture, but to Ruriko, it was familiar, safe. “If you want to see Rina in her element, you should come to see us perform in Harajuku next week. I’ve been drilling the girls, and our choreography is excellent. She’s never been better.”

The memory of crashing lights came back to Ruriko, the way it had in Kaori’s room. But this time, she closed her eyes tight and held on, focusing on the living warmth of the body beside her. The memory slipped away. Ruriko opened her eyes to the mirrored ceiling, blinked once, twice. Her reflection blinked back. “Yeah,” she said, her voice steady. “I’ll be there.” Again, and again, and again.

Yume took her hand and squeezed it, the way she used to all those years ago. “Good,” she said. Her face was so lovely that it hurt to look at her. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

©2018 by Alyssa Wong. Originally published in Robots vs. Fairies, edited by Dominik Parisien and Navah Wolfe. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alyssa Wong writes fiction, comics, and games. Their stories have won the Nebula Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the Locus Award. Alyssa was a finalist for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and their fiction has been shortlisted for the Hugo, Bram Stoker, and Shirley Jackson Awards. Alyssa’s comics credits include Marvel, DC, Star Wars, and Adventure Time. Alyssa has also written for Overwatch and Story and Franchise Development at Blizzard Entertainment. Alyssa can be found on Twitter as @crashwong.

EXCERPT: Sweep of Stars (Tor Books)

Maurice Broaddus | 4610 words

Maurice Broaddus’s Sweep of Stars is the first in a trilogy that explores the end of an empire. Epic in scope and intimate in voice, it follows members of the Muungano empire— a far-reaching coalition of city-states that stretches from O.E. (original earth) to Titan— as it faces an escalating series of threats.

“The past, the present, and the future often collide with each other.”

—Stacia Chikeke, research captain of the star vessel Cipher

What happens when a peaceful utopia has to gear up for war? New leaders rise up vying to be the voice of the people. Scientists discover truths that could rock the foundations of the empire. Soldiers uncover a terrible secret and an alien plot against their alliance. Everyone must sacrifice for the love of their dream.

Coming March 29, 2022 from Tor Books.

Chapter 01

Amachi Adisa—Muungano, the Belts / the Dreaming City

Your name is Leah Adisa. For now.

Choosing a name for yourself is not something to be entered into lightly. It is a promise you make to the Universe. Or it to you. A name is the story of yourself you present to the world, a label to define you. That is the entire point of the Naming Ceremony: you are finally of age to interpret yourself and enter fully into the Muungano community as a full free member.

Because this is an Adisa renaming, the entire Ijo governing body travels in from all of the Muungano alliance. An excuse for the people to, as the Ugenini would say, show out. The full sovereign territory of Muungano centers around the lunar outpost and the facility that serves as its capital, the Dreaming City. Named after an old tale the Wise Ones whispered when it was time for bed. A place full of orisha and magic and the old ways. From Bronzeville on Mars, Titan, and even the distant Oyigiyigi mining outpost, members make the voyage. It’s only a couple of weeks’ travel at sublight, but many representatives wanted to make the pilgrimage. Even the fabled research ship, the Cypher, is due to dock anytime now. With its captain. Your heart twists, nearly dropping to your belly, with the weight of the complicated feelings that accompany thoughts of her.

You distract your mind from her and the ceremony—the gathering of the families, the ritual and production—by focusing on preparing yourself. You spread your clothes out on your bed. As a spiritual cleansing, you light three candles. Fearing that three undeclared open flames might set off the fire suppression system, you snuff one out. With one of the candles, you ignite a small bowl of herbs, just enough for the leaves to smolder and fill the room with their sweet, woody odor. Adding a few chiba leaves to quell your anxiety, you close your eyes. Not quite in prayer but to simply control your breath and settle your emi—your awareness—to concentrate on understanding the language of the soul, our sabhu.

You study the array of clothes scattered about. You don’t want to wear any of the kaftans favored by the Titans, because she will be wearing one, and you don’t want her to think you’re imitating her. Encroaching on her. Thinking of her. Having handwoven a print to express your family’s roots, you sift through the rest for the proper accents. In the pit of your being, you still feel every bit the imposter. One wearing the print of a family you weren’t actually born into.

The door chimes.

[Camara Xola Adisa,] Maya intones.

“What’s he doing here?” you ask.

[You could let him in and find out,] Maya said. [Though it’s a statistical likelihood that he has some words of insight or encouragement to offer you before the ceremony.]

“Let him in.” You mutter the word smart-ass under your breath even though, one, Maya’s system still likely heard you and, two, they have no feelings—as you understand them—to hurt. Your hands fidget so much you reach for your chakram to twirl.

The door loses its color until it becomes a transparent window before a low hiss signals the material dissolving into an opening.

“I see you.” Camara Xola Adisa stoops slightly to enter. His skin—papery thin, well veined with pink undertones to his complexion—light enough to pass for wazungu. Tufts of gray-tinged, black hair ring the back of his head. His wife, Selamault, must not have been up yet. She would never let him out of their kraal looking like a disheveled shepherd.

“I see you,” you return his greeting. Behind him one of the Niyabinghi waits by the door entrance. The guard doesn’t enter.

“It’s almost time.” Lean as a reed, Xola moves with a slight tremble to his limbs. You believe he plays up this affect a bit, in order to make people attend him more closely. And underestimate him. He could have synthed new organs, but he proclaimed that would be treating the symptoms, not the root of his neurological degenerative disorder. Tracking any sound, his hazel eyes remain alert and sharp as his mind. Settling into a chair, he sniffs the air with an exaggerated snuffle, noting the not-quite-successfully cloaked smell of chiba with a knowing smirk crossing his lips.

“I’m almost ready.” You turn from him so that your idiotic grin doesn’t confirm your self-medication.

“Stacia should be here, helping you with your hair.”

Busying yourself by straightening up, you wince at the sound of her name. You wonder if he’s purposely being oblivious or inconsiderate, to gauge your reaction. There were so many expectations for the pair of you. Nearly the same age, she’s a captain now, while you are only now having your Naming Ceremony. “Her ship was over two weeks away, studying the Orun Gate, when I last received a message from her. She will barely make the ceremony.”

“Are you nervous?” Camara Xola struggles to find a more comfortable position in his seat even as it adjusts to his posture. His hand flutters in front of his face, gesturing as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

“No,” you lie, but you recognize one of his probing questions when you hear them. The community is school and school is always in session, Xola enjoys repeating. The Camara always takes the measure of those around him. Constantly curious, and genuinely so, it also allows him to ferret out possible weakness. No, it was more like scouting. He was always on the lookout to welcome and develop new leaders. Ones committed to building out the Muungano infrastructure for promoting learning and achievement.

And you never want to appear weak before him. Never him.

“You sure? Lots of folks here showing up to check you out. Coming to see what name an Adisa chooses for themselves.” His wry grin widens, perfectly pleased with himself.

You can’t help but match it. “I won’t disappoint.”

“I know you won’t.” Camara Xola’s eyes dart away from yours. His tell, when he has something he wants to pass along, calculating the best way to come at you.

“What is it?” You provide him the opening. You’ve never had trouble talking with directness to each other.

“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” The grin returns.

“You taught me not to.”

“I did? Hm, I must be better than I thought.” Xola plucks a jackfruit from within the folds of his robes. His long, yellowed nails dig into the flesh of the fruit. You can’t help but watch his flicks and fumbles, the intricate dance of his fingers along the fruit’s skin. You’re pretty convinced that he grows his nails impractically long simply to annoy his caretakers.

“Don’t try to be clever by changing topics,” you say with a smile in your voice.

“It’s Selamault.” A heavy sigh ladens his words. “She won’t be at the Naming Ceremony.”

“Oh.” The disappointment seeps out of you like a poorly bandaged wound.

Camara Xola reaches for your hand, his long, spidery fingers tremulous as they wrap around yours. “She’s sick. Can barely get out of bed. You know it’s the only reason she’d miss your time.”

“Will she be all right?” You study your fingers interlaced with his, how dark your skin is, especially compared to his.

“She should be. I’m not sure she’s going to let a spell of sickness stop her.” Xola squeezes your hand. “She loves you like you were her own.”

“I know.” The words come out, but you sound not quite convinced even to your ears.

“Because you are,” he finishes. “Your place is within our family. A daughter we are so proud of. I hope you hear that. And one day, I hope you fully believe it.”

Camara Xola has been every bit the father to you ever since you lost your parents in a mining accident so long ago you can’t remember their faces outside of a holovid. He releases your hand after a brief shake of your fingers to keep you from spiraling into a gravity well of introspection.

“I know.” You slowly meet his eyes. “I really do.”

“Good. Besides, you being around keeps Wachiru on his toes.”

“He needs it. All of Muungano will be his one day.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Camara Xola straightens, excited about an idea, and suddenly seems a few dozen years younger. “If we do this really, really well, Muungano will be everywhere. Folks raised in the Muungano way will go out into the world, the universe, and they will create other Muunganos in new spaces.”

“But Wachiru is the heir apparent.” You leave the words not me unsaid.

“Wachiru is the oldest in the work. He was born into it and raised in it, so naturally he’s a great candidate. But the role is not grounded in biology; a leader has to be selected by the community. The Camara is the voice of the community. A teacher. A consensus builder. Someone with the vision and skills to lead. Someone who represents the philosophy of the work. Now I don’t know how Wachiru would feel about any of that. At the very least, though, he recognizes the burden and sacrifice of leadership.” Camara Xola slumps, suddenly weary. When he chuckles, it’s a low, dark thing. “Maybe I’m being naive not having developed a ritual of transition.”

“Because you oldheads think you’re immortal.” Keyed to your artificial cowries encircling your wrist, you activate a wave of nanobots with a sweep of your hand. With that gesture, your funkentelechy spreads and directs them like liquid metal to fashion a curtain for you to hide behind to finish dressing. More because you hate the vulnerability of being observed enrobing than actually being seen nude. You have no shame of your body, but you do treat the ritual of dressing and applying makeup with the solemnity of a magician not wanting to reveal their secrets.

“It has been a couple of hundred years of birthdays. I’m old enough to know that we have to remain vigilant.” Xola’s voice becomes thoughtful and distant, drifting off into a dream. “There are always forces ready to attack who we are. I fear what we might become to stop them. But worst-case scenario is how my mind works.”

The two of you fall silent as you finish putting on your clothes. The weight of the day, of the community, presses on you. Your mind sifts through possibilities. You can’t escape the sensation of something impending about to drop on you. You push your anxiousness to the side as you put the final pins in your wrap.

“I’m almost ready,” you announce.

“Let me see you.” You can almost hear Xola’s anticipatory rustling, ready for a show.

You draw back the curtain. Rich blends of gold, black, and green form your full-body wrap of handmade kente weave. Your black cloak has a matching pattern for its border. Your head wrap leads into a cow-horn-shaped hat. It took you weeks to make, with thousands of curses from pricking your fingers while mastering the old ways rather than simply synthesizing the materials. The entire point of the Naming Ceremony is to connect the past to the future, so you thought this extra effort only fitting. Xola beams with pride.

“You are amazing. Want to tell me your new name?” Having risen to circle you in inspection, Xola leans toward you in a conspiratorial whisper. “I promise I won’t tell.”

You match his movement and soft voice. “You’ll have to come to the ceremony to find out.”

“I’ll see you there, then.” Beaming, Xola walks toward the door before hesitating. “I appreciate you.”

“I appreciate you.”

The members of Muungano experience two Naming Ceremonies. You don’t remember your first. It came seven days after your birth. On O.E., the Yo, as you call it. By the holo accounts, family and neighbors gathered together to celebrate and welcome you into the world; imitating the rituals they heard were carried out on Muungano. You were given the name of a distant ancestor in your family. It is only fitting that you chose Ojo Bo, the Day of Creation, for the day of your second.

As your Saqqara shuttle ship disembarks from the array, the two bisecting arms known as the Belts span the circumference of the moon in a curving perpendicular lattice looming over you. A string of kraals arranged in a long line, the series of modules gird the moon in a geosynchronous orbit over the Dreaming City, the capital of Muungano. Descending on a vector to the building—with spires radiating from its dome—the many-rayed architecture make it appear like a setting sun coming into view.

You love landing into the Dreaming City. With its giant columns, sky ports, and blur of lights, it is a gleaming bauble filling the horizon. The journey weighs your bones down and roots you until the bump of the tractor tethers lock onto your Saqqara and jolt you out of your reverie. Riding the invisible conveyor, you never feel a bit of the interstellar cold, which would chill you to the bone. Instead, the sun’s rays overhead beat down upon you, causing any exertion to make you sweat. You’ve grown up in the carefully regulated confines of the Dreaming City. By your seventh year, you knew every centimeter. By your fifteenth, you knew the entire surface of lunar Muungano. You haven’t visited many planets; a run to Titan with Stacia, a brief stay in the Bronzeville outpost on the Mars settlement. Your heart still races, just an extra beat, admiring the jeweled heart of Muungano.

Still, you yearn for more. The stars call to you. If not for the Yo or Mars, then certainly Titan or maybe even worlds beyond. You dream of truly outer space and the magic of the stars.

A team of twenty drummers strike up a beat and line up at the front of the great hall of the Dreaming City. Behind them, a storm of dancers hop in place, allowing space for the drummers to proceed, before spacing out along the pathway to twirl their scarves. Green, yellow, or black, mirroring your outfit. They synchronize their movement, a formation of limbs jerking and swaying, bobbing along the syncopated heartbeat of the pounding rhythm.

Crowds of people line either side of the walkway. You’ve never seen so many of your people assembled at once. Here in this place, in this time, they echo the old ways. Their dress a sea of kente cloth, kaftans, and head wraps. Bold colors, different patterns representing the various families. Though you know it’s not the case, it seems like all of Muungano has turned out for your renaming. Once you complete the ceremony, the next step will be for you to be formally invited to the Ijo as a ranking member of the Adisa family.

A sudden dread gnaws your stomach.

Serving as the officiating elder, Bayard Anike stands up next and follows the dancers, his every step slow and considered. An oak of a man, his white, embroidered gown—with its wide sleeves—drapes over short-sleeved, matching tunic and trousers. However, his hat echoes the colors of your wrap as do the accents on his otherwise black shoes. Bayard carries a large staff, which he raises according to his own internal rhythm, turns it on its side, as if to bar anyone from approaching.

Camara Xola marches next, alongside an empty chair held aloft by four members of the Niyabinghi. Under ordinary circumstances, he would serve as the officiating elder, but because this is your ceremony, he defers to Bayard and instead serves as Libator so that he may lead the family processional. You walk behind him with your peculiar stride, a sort of a toe-first stomp, each footfall slapping the ground to echo as loudly as possible against the fused regolith floor. As he steps onto the pathway, a holographic image flares to life. Mother Sela, despite being in her sickbed, projects an image of herself. The hologram of Selamault, unperturbed by the regulated temperature of the Dreaming City and the clear view through the dome, seems to stare toward the horizon of Muungano. She turns to look down at you, outstretching her fingers to brush yours. A ghost of light projections, they pass through your hands.

Wachiru brings up the rear. His features favor his father though his complexion is several shades darker. He hoists a large umbrella, a token meant to shield the Queen Mother during the processional. The differences between you and Wachiru betray the illusion of you being blood relations. He stands tall and thin with the delicate build of a russet-complected flower easily uprooted. Much darker skinned, your short, thick frame—a muscled, squat construction of too much behind and overcompensating chest—moves with a dancer’s confidence. Your deep, sepia eyes all but dare anyone to cross you. Wachiru turns to you and nods, his eyes warm and inviting, but distant in the way that he never quite focuses on anyone in particular. Despite the Muungano greeting, he sees in a way that defies explanation.

Four members of the Niyabinghi Order follow the processional as rear guard. When you arrive at the center dais, the entire parade pauses in remembrance of the spot where the original module touched down and construction began on the Dreaming City’s first structure as a part of the social experiment called First World. The guards disperse to the four corners of the stage.

A hush falls over the crowd without Bayard doing anything beyond taking center stage.

“To destroy the identity of a people,” he begins, “you must first strip them of their name, strip them of their sense of self. Your name joins you to your family, your history, your culture. We struggled long and hard to reclaim our birthright and control of ourselves. Today we honor our right to define ourselves on our terms. Leah Adisa, before whom do you vow?”

“Nyame. Asase Afua. The orisha. My honored ancestors. My family, Adisa. The people of Muungano.”

“What name do you choose for yourself?”

“Amachi,” you proclaim. Turning to the gathering, you define your name. “Who knows what God has brought us through this child.”

His lips broadening into a well-pleased smile, Camara Xola Adisa stifles a snort.

Not wanting the moment broken, Bayard cuts him a slight, chastening glare before continuing. “As you say, so shall it be. Beloved community of Muungano, I present to you Amachi Leah Adisa.”

“Hail! Hail! Hail!” Camara Xola cries out and steps forward to address the community. “May happiness come.”

“Ase!” the people of Muungano shout in response.

“Whenever we join to make a circle, may our chain be complete.” Camara Xola raises his hands.

“Ase!”

“Whenever we dig a well, may we come upon water.”

“Ase!”

“May it be darkness behind the stranger who has come”—Xola turns to you—“and light before her.”

“Ase!”

“May her mother and father have long life.” He nods at Selamault, who returns the gesture.

“Ase!”

“May she eat by the labor of her hands.”

“Ase!”

“May she show respect to the world.”

“Ase!”

“May her path be straightened for her.”

“Ase!”

“Life and prosperity to all her children.”

“Ase!”

“May we leave whole and may we return whole.”

“Ase!”

“And”—Xola returns his steady gaze to you—“may happiness come.”

“Ase! Ase! Ase!” the people of Muungano erupt.

Representatives from each of the seven governing families of Muungano assemble for the gathering of the Ijo. The full ruling body rarely meets. The elder of each kraal typically organizes their represented community. There is little need for the collective elders to actually come together except on special occasions or simply to just enjoy being a community of elders delighting in one another as if they attended a family reunion. The room radiates around a large table. Symbolic more than anything else, as it couldn’t seat the entire Adisa family, much less the full Ijo. But it is the traditional gathering place for a family meeting.

You are introduced to visiting members. Ambassadors, physicists, poets, teachers, engineers, healers, none of whom use titles or honorifics (other than the Camara, who winks at you while you mingle). As they are from Ugenini, Asili, and Maroon peoples, from all reaches of Muungano, the biolink implanted in each member allows Maya to translate for you, functioning much like a site-to-site glyph. You chat, you laugh, little of it you will remember due to the heady excitement of being introduced anew to your community.

To great applause and shouts, you take the stairs and stride across the floor to take your seat between Camara Xola and Wachiru. You can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy of Wachiru. By simple virtue of him being him, the natural-born son of Xola and Selamault, he wins any battle for people’s affections. You are left with the scraps, think about when he isn’t around. Silent and intent, he bobs his head without disdain for the proceedings, but caught up in his mental world of beats and melodies. His mind full of music, all staccato cadences, storytelling by a poet warrior. It makes your skin flush with pride and . . . something. Not quite anger, more frustration. That he squanders his position by always chasing after possibilities rather than embracing his birthright.

“You think too much,” Xola looms into your ear.

“I don’t want to miss anything,” you say.

“You’re here. Be here.” His long fingers dance along the console. The movements haphazard and jittery as if he’s playing a balafon. His eyes bother him, beginning to fail him, all the while he continues to act as if nothing is wrong. Xola slips without Selamault around, betraying the frailty of his condition. Ordinarily, she hovers over him in a constant fuss, the comfortable worry of a long-joined partner to their spouse. But buried in the interactions are her masking the severity of his symptoms. Passing food for him. Sharing his food, breaking his into portions for easy purchase and eating. Perusing files, reading them aloud in the guise of seeking his opinion on matters. A careful choreography. Without her around, his symptoms demonstrate that he is clearly worse than you thought. With your elevated position in the family, he has allowed you to see it. “You are as you have always been: among your people.”

The Ijo continue to seat themselves around the dais of the Dreaming City’s main chamber. You half rehearse what you would say to the Ijo, comforted by the fact that they are duty bound to greet and welcome you. Then you chide yourself for such cynicism. You know that the families—who have known and loved you since you first walked among them—eagerly await to rejoice in your formal induction into the community. The inchoate dread of expectation chews at you nonetheless, because you fear your ability to live up to the ghost of their dreams for you.

A mild commotion stirs near the area where the Buhari family have gathered.

Camara Xola stands, and the throng settles into a hush as he shuffles toward the dais. In a low, unwavering voice steeled with pride, he announces, “The Adisa family, governing family of the Ijo, present the newest duly appointed member of our family: Amachi Adisa.”

The full Ijo stands. Each member clasps their wrists and bows their heads in your direction. When they raise their heads, they break their grasp. They hold their fists out as they shout.

“Hoo!”

A chorus of finger snaps issue from when the Yar’adua family congregate. Bayard, head of their family, steps forward. “We see you, Amachi Adisa, daughter of Xola Adisa and Selamault Jywanza. Long may you serve.”

“I offer all in service to Muungano,” you say.

You catch sight of Maulana Buhari, gliding through the crowd, a shark among a scattering school of fish parting as he nears. Your heart skips a measure before finding itself again. You have admired the man for almost as long as you have drawn breath. You have studied his fiery words as faithfully as an agoze, holding him second only to Xola in your heart’s admiration. Marching with a quiet dignity—stiff and upright, ever overly mannered—he defers to the stateliness of the proceedings, but otherwise has no use for its symbolic pageantry. His dark eyes filled with both a devouring hunger and a protective menace. He has a way of looking at everything, constantly calculating its potential threat. His face full of intent, he whispers in his elder’s ear.

“Are there any matters to bring before the Ijo?” Camara Xola asks, both knowing and expectant.

A Buhari elder stands, his face a filigree of wrinkles, and an expression on his face as if he’d just bitten into the sourest of apples. “The Buhari name Maulana, son of Hakeem and Tiamoyo Buhari, as the duly appointed head of our family.”

A few gasps ripple among the Ijo. The Buhari elder was certainly due to step down, but an elder usually only relinquished his seat after sufficient notice for the Ijo to arrange a proper gratitude ceremony. A move this sudden, without so much as a warning whisper, portents nothing but ill.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, since you already have little room or love for such grandstanding.

“We see you, Maulana Buhari,” Bayard ordains. “Long may you serve.”

“I see you.” Usually not one to be caught up on procedural matters, Maulana remains standing. From the graveness of his face, the vague unease you experienced at his entrance begins to curdle into something solid. “Camara, I’m afraid that I come bearing sobering news.”

“What is it, Maulana?” Camara Xola bridges his fingers, his gaze leveled at the table.

“It’s Jaha.”

Copyright © 2022 by Maurice Broaddus. Excerpted from A Sweep of Stars by Maurice Broaddus. Published by permission of Tor Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A community organizer and teacher, his work has appeared in magazines like Lightspeed Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Asimov’s, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Uncanny Magazine, with some of his stories having been collected in The Voices of Martyrs. His books include the urban fantasy trilogy, The Knights of Breton Court; the steampunk works, Buffalo Soldier and Pimp My Airship; and the middle grade detective novels, The Usual Suspects and Unfadeable. His project, Sorcerers, is being adapted as a television show for AMC. As an editor, he’s worked on Dark Faith, Fireside Magazine, and Apex Magazine. Learn more at MauriceBroaddus.com.

Book Review: The Blood Trials by N.E. Davenport

Aigner Loren Wilson | 551 words

The Blood Trials

N. E. Davenport

Hardcover / Ebook

ISBN: 9780063058484

Harper Voyager, April 2022, 464 pgs

N. E. Davenport’s science fiction debut, The Blood Trials, blends action, fantasy, and a bit of a murder mystery to form a modern military SF story. The first in a duology, The Blood Trials follows Black main character Ikenna as she tries to saddle her grief to survive a brutal initiation ritual in her racist and misogynistic society. She wouldn’t be going through with it if it wasn’t for her need to find answers to who killed her grandfather, the man who was both her mentor and confidant. Somewhere within the ranks lurks a killer, and Ikenna will stop at nothing to bring them the death they’ve so rightfully earned.

From the start of the book, Davenport introduces readers to a society and culture built on the back of a lot of blood, war, and racism. It feels all too familiar, yet this martial world is an alien planet with fantastical creatures, outlawed blood magic, and cursed beings. Gods and guns go hand in hand in The Blood Trials. Davenport creates a unique and original world filled with characters whose motivations and intentions readers can’t help but relate to—even as the characters go through extraordinary and brutal blood trials to join their country’s rank of elite killers.

It’s kind of hard for me to explain just how brutal and gruesome events get in The Blood Trials. The story ramps up from one violent, disturbing encounter to the next, with the writing being both visceral and emotional. Each bloody scene has depth and leads to more answers that compel you to keep reading, which was one of my favorite aspects of Davenport’s writing.

The worldbuilding is built into every interaction and moment. I will say that sometimes it slows the pacing or over-explains something, but never in a bad way. I left each scene and moment knowing I had learned something new about the world, characters, and mystery at the heart of The Blood Trials. This type of writing, mixed with the modern dialect and language of the characters, made the novel easy to read and follow.

The themes of racism and misogyny, though familiar, took on a new life in the brutal war culture where fighting and prowess are championed. Like with all aspects of The Blood Trials, the themes are important and tied into the plot and the world itself. While the world and themes may be heavy, brutal, and unyielding, the relationships built and sustained between the characters are heartwarming, funny, and very much the interactions of young adults raised in a society to be killer soldiers with a knack for violence and history.

And the snappy and funny voice of Ikenna makes The Blood Trials a great beginning to what I imagine will be a go-to book for many readers interested in military science fiction with fantasy elements from a diverse perspective.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aigner Loren Wilson is a queer Black writer of speculative fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and games. She is a senior fiction editor at Strange Horizons and an associate editor at the horror podcast NIGHTLIGHT. Her work has appeared in FIYAH, Anathema, Arsenika, and other publications. When she’s not writing or editing for others, she’s learning, hiking, or loving on her fur babies—both human and animal. To check out her books, games, bread bakes, and other writings visit her website (aignerlwilson.com).

Book Review: Screams From the Dark, edited by Ellen Datlow

Arley Sorg | 1147 words

Screams From the Dark

edited by Ellen Datlow

Hardcover / Ebook

ISBN: 9781250797063

Tor Nightfire, June 2022, 496 pgs

Most writers in genre consider it a career landmark to get into an Ellen Datlow anthology. Not every anthology gets the same traction, but recent successes include 2021 titles When Things Get Dark: Stories Inspired by Shirley Jackson from Titan and Body Shocks: Extreme Tales of Body Horror from Tachyon. In 2021 she was a World Fantasy Award finalist for Edited By (Subterranean Press), a Locus Award Winner for Best Editor, and a Hugo Award Winner for Best Editor, Short Form, among other honors. But this is not unusual: she’s won so many awards, she could probably have them melted into a life-sized robot.

Datlow tends to put out anthologies that are crammed with stars. Upcoming original anthology Screams from the Dark is no exception. It features a number of headliners who embody various kinds of writerly stardom. There are multiple-award winners, such as legend Joyce Carol Oates, who has taken home literary honors as well as genre honors; Jeffrey Ford, who never met a major genre award he couldn’t win—or at least get very close to winning; and Brian Evenson, who has taken home awards and prizes, as well as an NEA and a Guggenheim fellowship. There are commercial successes, such as bestseller Richard Kadrey, who is well known for his Sandman Slim series; and bestseller Stephen Graham Jones, whose recent books The Only Good Indians and My Heart is a Chainsaw have become undeniable hits. In fact, most of the writers here are either award-winners, well-known, or very well-regarded within the industry—or some combination of the three.

You can crack the spine on this anthology to any random page and find a solid story. Everyone here knows how to put a good narrative together. There are twenty-nine stories altogether, but I’ll highlight a few I found notable.

“The Ghost of a Flea” by Priya Sharma is, in some ways, reminiscent of stories in which Bram Stoker encounters a vampire and is inspired to write Dracula based on the encounter. These kinds of stories vary greatly in quality and content and are fairly popular. Two things set this piece apart. First, Sharma is an excellent storyteller. Second, she turns her attention to a far more interesting subject: eighteenth century polymath William Blake, and in particular, his painting called “The Ghost of a Flea.” Sharma’s style smoothly evokes the era without becoming awkward or heavy handed. John Varley (who was an actual contemporary and friend of the historic William Blake) comes to Blake hoping to find help in stopping what seems to be a supernatural evil of some kind, a killer which is leaving a string of bodies behind. The story centers on a determined and intelligent couple, William and his wife Kate, who are resolute in the face of mounting terror. Those more familiar with the era or the individuals than I will likely find even more to admire about this short, but you can know absolutely nothing about them and enjoy it as an effective piece of fiction.

“What Is Meat with No God?” by Cassandra Khaw is a bloody fantasy-horror piece about a kind of soldier who just won’t stay down. Fantastic prose and style drive what is otherwise primarily (pretty damn cool) imagery and idea. There is, potentially, a good amount of subtext for those who want to read it that way. There might be commentary on war, religion, power and politics, and more. It could be, for example, a dark reflection on the impact of political machinations, and how greed causes the dehumanization of the individuals caught up in the game. Then again, all of that may be unintentional; it may just be a side effect of whatever the reader brings to the read. In other words, it could just be a gory, fun, well-executed horror idea.

“The Special One” by Chịkọdịlị Emelụmadụ is a very strong story. An intriguing opening leads to lovely prose and occasionally great lines, and the entire piece is filigreed by clever ironies, contradictions, and observations. The story has the feeling of a fable, one which slowly builds to a very dark ending. A girl named Joy has a bit of unusual talent and is consequently fed her parents’ huge expectations, only to grow up never quite meeting those expectations. Until one morning, when Joy wakes up in the embrace of a python. She decides the python is a portent, that it’s a divine messenger, and more importantly, her way to the greatness for which she was born. The primary theme is fairly clear, but there are a lot of fantastic nuances along the way, as well as a sharp, classic horror finish.

“Here Comes Your Man” by Indrapramit Das opens with clean, comfortable, yet carefully interesting prose, which effectively draws the reader in. The main characters, Aditya and Megha, are in a situation which will probably feel at least somewhat relatable to folks who travel, as well as to folks who have experienced some degree of cultural displacement. They’ve come to a rural town for a festival, and the locals treat them like tourists. Megha’s family has a house nearby, but she hasn’t been back in a long time; and Aditya’s Bengali has gone rusty from years abroad. Together they occupy an awkward space of both belonging and not belonging at all. In the context of travel, and especially during an event like a festival, it’s not unusual to strike up conversation with a stranger. In fact, the friendliness is probably a welcome change. And yet, a major strength of Das’s writing here is the subtle anxiety underlying even the opening; the hard-to-pinpoint tension. Behind the stranger’s languorous smile and friendliness, you just know something ain’t right. The encounter with the stranger turns sour, and in the aftermath, after the couple leaves the man behind, subtle discomforts build in force to become complex conflicts. This is horror, after all, so things are only going to get worse. But Das makes sure the journey is an absolutely gripping one. This piece is brilliantly complex, brutally honest, and layered with petals of intense transformations.

Some of the best writers working in horror have original stories in this anthology. It’s definitely worth your time. Start with the stories I’ve listed above, and then work your way through the anthology from there. You are in for a bloody good ride.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arley Sorg is co-Editor-in-Chief of Fantasy Magazine, senior editor at Locus Magazine, and associate editor at both Lightspeed and Nightmare. He reviews books for Locus, Lightspeed, and Cascadia Subduction Zone and is an interviewer for Clarkesworld Magazine. Arley grew up in England, Hawaii, and Colorado, and studied Asian Religions at Pitzer College. He lives in Oakland, and, in non-pandemic times, usually writes in local coffee shops. He is a 2014 Odyssey Writing Workshop graduate.

Book Review: Hunt The Stars, by Jessie Mihalik

Chris Kluwe | 742 words

Hunt The Stars

Jessie Mihalik

Trade Paperback / Ebook

ISBN: 9780063051034

Harper Voyager, February 2022, 400 pages

Greetings, readers, and welcome back to the reviews! In this month’s review I’ll be going over Hunt the Stars, a new science fiction novel from Jessie Mihalik (who also wrote the excellent Consortium Rebellion trilogy).

Much like Mihalik’s previous works, Hunt the Stars is a solid mixture of science fiction, romance, and space opera, featuring a confident female lead who may not always have all the answers, but generally knows where to go looking. It also includes a strong found-family sub-theme, plenty of gripping action scenes, a slightly telepathic cat-fox thing (because who doesn’t like floofy animals), and a steamy shower sequence that might leave you hot and bothered.

The book opens with Octavia Zarola, the protagonist in question, a former war hero turned bounty hunter who has been approached with the offer of a lifetime—track down a missing object for enough money to solve all her and her ship’s woes. The only catch is that the person offering is a member of the Valoff race, a group of telepathic almost-humans that Zarola spent her military career fighting to the death, and old scars still linger on both her body and mind (as well as her crew’s). To make it worse, the man offering, General Torran Fletcher, may not be quite the monster that Octavia thinks.

Much like her previous books, Mihalik does an excellent job of letting her characters grow and expand into the spaces she creates for them, and while the enemies-to-lovers trope is not a new one, it is executed well and with plenty of layers that keep the journey believable. Octavia and Torran’s relationship has plenty of twists and turns, and hums along quite nicely next to the bounty hunter mission both are pursuing. In addition, while Octavia and Torran’s crew aren’t centerpieces like their leaders, neither are they mere window dressing. I felt myself caring for each one as the book went on and the group grew closer together, and they all stood out in their own unique way.

One thing I like about Mihalik’s writing is that while Hunt the Stars is definitely an SF space opera world with plasma swords, telekinetic abilities, fancy combat armor and spaceships, all the gadgets and gizmos take second place to the people who use them. The focus is always on the characters and their relationships to each other instead of the minutiae of the tech (not that I mind a good geek-out numbers book), and the universe she creates feels both believable and complex without getting bogged down with extraneous detail. The pacing of the action scenes flows nicely as well, but again, the attention remains more on the characters instead of the combat.

The other thing I particularly enjoyed about Hunt the Stars is that Mihalik also does a great job of weaving a fairly complicated political/intrigue web around the crew’s mission while making it feel like an organic progression of events. The motives of the various factions are cloudy enough to be intriguing but not so much as to be impenetrable, and by the end of the book I felt like a resolution had been reached, only it was merely the first step onto a larger stage, one which I’m quite excited to see what Mihalik does with for subsequent entries.

Ultimately, Hunt the Stars is a flavorful book without being overly dense, and manages to delicately balance both light-hearted fun with serious emotional moments in a way that (while it might sound trite) left me feeling quite happy after I finished it. Not every journey has to be grimdark and ravaged, and I heartily recommend Mihalik’s latest entry to anyone who wants some good old-fashioned space adventure with characters you can grow to care about. I am definitely looking forward to more entries in this series, and hope that they come soon.

Read if: You want to reluctantly fall in love with buff Professor X; you feel like every character needs to be shipped; you need the floof.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Kluwe grew up in Southern California among a colony of wild chinchillas and didn’t learn how to communicate outside of barking and howling until he was fourteen years old. He has played football in the NFL, once wrestled a bear for a pot of gold, and lies occasionally. He is also the eternal disappointment of his mother, who just can’t understand why he hasn’t cured cancer yet. Do you know why these bio things are in third person? I have no idea. Please tell me if you figure it out.

Author Spotlight: Shiv Ramdas

Laurel Amberdine | 805 words

How did “Bhatia, PI” originate? What inspirations did you draw on?

As a series of conversations, but basically as a joke, and I mean that seriously. The basic premise—of a fraudulent paranormal investigator running a shoestring-budget out-of-parents’-home operation sort of birthed itself as a minor character I created for a sketch webseries that never came to be. Then for a good while after that I always sort of had this notion of wanting to sprinkle it into a story somewhere because it was so ridiculous. Only I never quite found the right spot and one day I was lamenting all of it to my spouse and was promptly asked why I hadn’t turned it into a story of its own. Which now seems obvious but had equally obviously never occurred to me. So off I went, only it’s gone and turned into a novel now. And in the process of that novel, I also ended up with this novelette, which is basically a prequel/introduction to the world and events of the novel and a sort of “origin story” for the main characters, while also running parallel to all of it in some ways.

Did you get stuck at any point while writing this? How did you get past that?

Shockingly, not at all, it may be one of the most easily-and-painlessly flowing stories I’ve ever put out. I’d sat down to do a sort of backstory/origin to my characters, decided to write it in the style of the novel, and by the end of the day I pretty much had the novelette, give or take a few minor tweaks that have happened over time. It was a remarkably fun experience, even when weighed in the context of writing funny stories being, well, fun.

Where are you in this story?

Everywhere, really, but if there’s one place where it’s probably most obvious, it would perhaps be the narrative voice itself. So much of comedy is in the view of events, in addition (or even opposition) to the events themselves, and that’s a place I seem to find myself existing in not just more and more, but also rather comfortably, and that’s especially true of this story, which wrote itself so readily.

What led you into writing genre fiction?

Other than reading genre fiction and enjoying writing, you mean? Probably a desire to write stories that I hadn’t read or couldn’t find, though I’m not sure there was that much of a conscious decision making process about the whole thing. Really, it was more that every time I wrote something, all the way back to when I was maybe six years old, it turned out to be genre and fiction, and the sort of things I wrote were things I wanted to read, or a mishmash of genres, if you will. Which I suppose is not very different to a lot of people. Most of us writers are just DIY readers, really, or at least that’s my theory.

What trends in speculative fiction would you like to see gain popularity in the next few years?

I think it already is gaining popularity, but I’d love to see even more explorations of humour and humourous storytelling from people from who aren’t from traditionally-published backgrounds. For one because I think we could all use a bit of laughter in our lives these days, but also because laughter, and making people laugh, is such a primal and yet fundamental building block of not just storytelling, but also culture itself. And the varied way in which various cultures view, construct and deliver humour in storytelling mediums is such a vast and often-untapped ocean of riches, both for the reader and for other writers.

What are you working on lately? Where else can fans look for your work?

In case I haven’t mentioned it often enough already, there’s the novel featuring the further (mis)adventures of the characters you’ve met in this story. And let’s just say there’s a reason why this novelette is the prequel, because if you thought things were absurd so far, well, it’s about to get really wild.

The novel isn’t quite finished yet, but it’s getting rather close now, and I can’t wait for you to see what happens next! I post updates when I can to my website and Twitter, though you can also follow along on my Patreon (bit.ly/3g99Ayd) where I post excerpts as well as a few other tidbits.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in Portland and works (remotely) for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Author Spotlight: Daniel David Froid

Laurel Amberdine | 912 words

How did “An Exegesis of the Socioreligious Ramifications of the Collection of Peribi” originate? What inspirations did you draw on?

My partner wanted me to write a story about the moral panic incited by Pokémon (more on that in a minute). I wanted to write a story that drew on my obsessive thoughts about material waste. He and I often discuss the vast amounts of stuff in the world and have wondered more than once about its fate—about for instance, the millions of Funko Pop toys that must be out there, whose destiny will be to flood the landfills. Or they will form an entire stratum upon the surface of the earth, to be studied by future visitors. It soon became clear that these were related concerns—different ways of thinking about our attachments. I wanted to think through how we humans cultivate devotions to objects peculiar and perverse, driven by love and fear and hatred and curiosity, as well as the communities bound by those feelings: online fandom, collectors, church congregations, and so on. Very often, those things that inspire cultlike enthusiasm—as the Peribi do—inspire equally fervent fear and suspicion as well. My story offers several distinct portraits, an anatomy, of devotion.

Where are you in this story?

The real heart of this story is the third section, which concerns Leonard Snow and his experiences at church. In fact, this section began life as nonfiction, a bit of memoir I wrote several years ago that fit better, after much editing, within the framework of this story. Yet it still largely reflects my experiences: the apocalyptic “Y2J” sign, the vision of the lake of fire, and of course the lesson. Sunday school teachers felt at liberty to push dubious weekly lessons on us children, which often focused on the countless evils of the secular world—such as the diabolical pocket monsters. Like Leonard, I learned to watch for hidden signs of the devil’s hand, as he insidiously reached through the screen of the television or the Game Boy, to wrap his thick fingers around our tender hearts. I was struck by fear of God and devil. The ill-fated Leonard continued to dwell, as I have, on these lessons, realizing how terrible, pointless, but darkly funny they are. Writing this story allowed me to pick apart those memories, and my partner encouraged me to think more deeply about the satanic conspiracy angle. I liked fitting this section within the larger context of the cultural history of the Peribi.

Is there anything you want to make sure readers noticed?

I hope readers see themselves reflected in the story, even (or especially) if it makes them uneasy. I hope at least one of the sections strikes a chord with how readers think about their own attachments and communities.

Also, I am pleased with the descriptions of the individual types of Peribi. My goal was to make them seem realistic as toys that people might actually want to collect—yet ever so slightly off. I would like to hunt down the maitake-shaped one for myself.

What are you reading lately? What writers inspire you?

I’ve recently finished two enormous novels, each of which is the kind of bracing, mind-expanding fiction I love most. Olga Tokarczuk’s The Books of Jacob, as pretty nearly every review has affirmed, is her masterpiece, a stunning and beautiful novel about community, faith, family, history, mystery, mysticism, politics, writing, the eighteenth century, Poland, and a little bit of everything else, too. A friend of mine got me started on Neal Stephenson; I read Anathem, which details a parallel world full of monastic orders devoted not to religion but to science and philosophy. Its world is perfectly conceptualized; I was as fascinated by minor details about its fictional philosophers as I was by the plot itself. These two novels may seem quite different but are, in some ways, birds of a feather.

I also love short fiction. Two of my favorite (relatively) recent collections are Brian Evenson’s The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell and Aoko Matsuda’s Where the Wild Ladies Are. The brilliant, singular Caitlín R. Kiernan constantly inspires my writing and thinking; I am looking forward to reading their latest collection, Vile Affections.

Finally, music is a profound source of inspiration for me. I’ve been listening to a lot of Big Thief and Grouper lately: dreamy, folky, and a little weird. That’s where my head is right now.

What are you working on lately? Where else can fans look for your work?

My story “Camera’s Eye” appears in the latest issue of Weird Horror (#4). It’s another one I’m quite proud of; it explores a community devoted to a strange object of its own (a video purportedly offering a glimpse of hell). Both stories form part of a larger, interconnected cycle of stories titled Curiosities. The strange history of the Morley family and the people closely associated with them sort of forms the core of it. At the moment, I’m working on polishing several of those stories and on getting more of them published. Anyone interested in reading my published fiction can visit my website, danielfroid.com/fiction.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in Portland and works (remotely) for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Author Spotlight: Maria Dong

Laurel Amberdine | 1067 words

How did “Nine Tails of a Soap Empire” originate? What inspirations did you draw on?

To be honest, I can’t remember, although it may have been the idea of soap and what it represents. It’s fascinating to examine the history and cultural relevance of soap, the way we’ve fable-ized its discovery with this violent, erroneous story (the first soaps weren’t discovered after burning bodies in rivers; they were instead made from heating oil and wood ash), the meanings we’ve assigned to it over the centuries. It feels especially poignant now, when so many are meditating daily on contamination and cleanliness.

As stories go, this one is straight-up vibes, if you know what I mean—it’s so dependent on atmosphere and setting. It helps that I’ve previously spent a lot of time in this world, as it was originally developed for a novel that never quite made it across the finish line with publishers (it was on sub during early COVID.) I’m sure part of me wanted to find a way to reuse this thing I’d put so much effort and energy into creating.

Where are you in this story?

I listen to this podcast, Print Run (I recommend it for anybody trying to publish a novel and understand the industry better), and there’s an early episode in which one of the hosts talks about how, when he was just starting out as an agent, he used to lie in bed at night and just ache to sell a book. And when I first heard him say that, I was lying in bed, desperately wanting the same thing.

My point is that I’m hungry, all the time. The physical feeling, sure, because I have all sorts of food issues I’ve been working on most of my life—but also in the figurative sense. I think most writers are. We’re some of the softest, most emotional people out there, and yet we just throw ourselves into a meat-grinder, over and over, trying to make some words that someone else will read and fantasizing about movie deals that we pretend we don’t want.

I don’t know where my hunger comes from. Maybe it’s from being broke for a long time—there were so many instances I was in this really awful circumstance where the tiniest thing going my way would’ve have drastically changed my life, but I had no way of getting there.

Now that I’m finally finding a small measure of success and financial stability, I find that I can’t escape the stamp of that hunger. Everything I write winds up about being in desperate circumstances and seeking agency in small choices, because we don’t really have any substantive choices in the systems we find ourselves in. And for those of us who don’t start out with a lot, we often find stability by making dicey compromises that we will later have to reckon with—swallowing a coal, if you will.

Is there anything you want to make sure readers noticed?

There’s this common misconception about Korea that it’s this really culturally homogeneous place, where everyone believes the same thing and is obsessed with filial piety, and all of our history has the exact same outfits, the ones you see on Kingdom—but that’s just reductionist orientalism. No place is like that.

In this story, I wanted to showcase some of that texture. There are callbacks to various belief systems, like Christianity, Shamanism, and Buddhism. There are elements taken from earlier dynasties, like the Shilla dynasty, the reverence for antlers and antlered deities—and other pieces that are really quite modern. And of course, you have the narrator, who is obsessed with power and individual gain—just because a culture is more polite or collective on the whole doesn’t mean that there aren’t people out for themselves.

Also, Hanji paper is not only real, I actually under-sold its awesomeness. There are thousand-year-old Hanji scrolls just sitting around under glass in Korean museums. It’s really that resilient.

What would be your advice for other writers?

I answered this question in a previous interview, so I’ll try to say something different.

If you’re just starting out, you probably don’t actually know what kind of writer you are. I’m almost twenty years in, and I’ve only recently discovered that I’m actually a fair hand at suspense and that I have a slamming first-person voice. I managed to write a book last year that my agent called “screamingly funny,” and I was surprised, because I’d never considered myself a funny writer before. Part of the joy of doing this is that you’re going to make new discoveries all the time—but you can’t do that if you don’t push yourself to try things that you wouldn’t normally, that you’re maybe a little bit uncomfortable with.

An easy way to do this for short fiction is sub calls. If you see a call you would normally ignore—take it as a challenge and do your best to reinterpret the theme in a way that speaks to you. It doesn’t actually matter if you send the story to that particular venue or not.

What are you working on lately? Where else can fans look for your work?

I’ve just finished revisions on my upcoming novel, Liar, Dreamer, Thief—a surreal psychological suspense with some light fantasy elements—which will be coming out in January of 2023. (Less than a year, now!) I’m also busily drafting another suspense about artists in a collective that leans hard into the gothic.

I’ve been lucky enough to place pieces in a bunch of mags lately, which you can see here: mariadong.com/publications. If you’re really feeling more Korean-based fiction, you might like this story in khōréō (bit.ly/341wmWm), and if you want another story about hunger, there’s this (adorable yet creepy) story in Nightmare (bit.ly/3IY9sxX).

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in Portland and works (remotely) for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Author Spotlight: Julianna Baggott

Laurel Amberdine | 281 words

How did “The Historiography of Loss” originate? What inspirations did you draw on?

On this one very hard day, I offered to go into a trailer after someone had died by suicide—to retrieve necessities and to get the dog. This of course is not that story. But I wouldn’t have written this story if that wasn’t something that happened. In writing these sentences, I feel stiff and disconnected. But in writing this story, I did not.

What are you reading lately? What writers inspire you?

I wrote a fan letter to Sofia Samatar today because I just kept bumping into her brilliant stories and I adore her work; I don’t write fan letters much, but I should do more of it.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Writing is the gift. Doing the work is the gift. Protect that. If I’d read that advice while a young writer, I’d have hated it. But it’s now my primary job, to protect my love of the page and the intimate and personal work done there. To protect while engaging in a career. It requires compartmentalization.

What are you working on lately? Where else can fans look for your work?

I have a science fiction novella called The Wick coming out from Underland Press and my first collection of stories, after years and years of novels, called I’d Really Prefer Not to Be Here With You; they’re all odd, speculative, science fiction, fantasy, or a mix of all those impulses and a few more.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in Portland and works (remotely) for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Coming Attractions

The Editors | 237 words

Coming up in April, in Lightspeed . . .

We have original science fiction by Izzy Wasserstein (“Everything the Sea Takes, it Returns”) and Phoebe Barton (“A Sword Has One Purpose”). We also have a flash piece (“It Came Gently”) from Aigner Loren Wilson, along with an SF reprint by Charlie Jane Anders (“The Day It All Ended”).

Our original fantasy is a new novelette by Ashok K. Banker called “A History of Snakes,” which we’ll be serializing over the course of two weeks. We also have a flash piece (“The Fairy Godmother Advice Column”) from Leah Cypess. Our fantasy reprint is by Maurice Broaddus (“Dance of Bones”).

All that, and of course we also have our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with book reviews from our terrific review team. Our ebook readers will also enjoy a book excerpt.

It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out.

• • • •

Looking ahead beyond next month, we’ve got a veritable plethora of stories forthcoming. We’ve got work from the following authors coming up over the next couple of issues: Tobias S. Buckell, S.G. Demciri, P H Lee, Lyndsie Manusos, Carrie Vaughn, and L.D. Lewis.

So be sure to keep an eye out for all that speculative goodness in the months to come. And while you’re at it, tell a friend about Lightspeed.

Thanks for reading!

Stay Connected

The Editors

Here are a few URLs you might want to check out or keep handy if you’d like to stay apprised of everything new and notable happening with Lightspeed:

Website

www.lightspeedmagazine.com

Destroy Projects

www.destroysf.com

Newsletter

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/newsletter

RSS Feed

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/rss-2

Podcast Feed

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/itunes-rss

Twitter

www.twitter.com/LightspeedMag

Facebook

www.facebook.com/LightspeedMagazine

Subscribe

www.lightspeedmagazine.com/subscribe

Subscriptions and Ebooks

The Editors

Subscriptions: If you enjoy reading Lightspeed, please consider subscribing. It’s a great way to support the magazine, and you’ll get your issues in the convenient ebook format of your choice. All purchases from the Lightspeed store are provided in epub, mobi, and pdf format. A 12-month subscription to Lightspeed includes more than 100 stories (about 700,000 words of fiction, plus assorted nonfiction). The cost is just $35.88 ($12 off the cover price)—what a bargain!

Visit lightspeedmagazine.com/subscribe for more information, including about third-party subscription options.

Ebooks & Bundles: We also have individual ebook issues available at a variety of ebook vendors ($3.99 each), and we now have Ebook Bundles available in the Lightspeed ebookstore, where you can buy in bulk and save! We currently have a number of ebook bundles available: Year One (issues 1-12), Year Two (issues 13-24), Year Three (issues 25-36), the Mega Bundle (issues 1-36), and the Supermassive Bundle (issues 1-48). Buying a bundle gets you a copy of every issue published during the named period. So if you need to catch up on Lightspeed, that’s a great way to do so.

Visit lightspeedmagazine.com/store for more information.

• • • •

All caught up on Lightspeed? Good news! We also have lots of ebooks available from our sister-publications:

Nightmare Ebooks, Bundles, & Subscriptions: Like Lightspeed, our sister-magazine Nightmare (nightmare-magazine.com) also has ebooks, bundles, and subscriptions available as well. For instance, you can get the complete first year (12 issues) of Nightmare for just $24.99; that’s savings of $11 off buying the issues individually. Or, if you’d like to subscribe, a 12-month subscription to Nightmare includes 48 stories (about 240,000 words of fiction, plus assorted nonfiction), and will cost you just $23.88 ($12 off the cover price).

Fantasy Magazine Ebooks & Bundles: We also have ebook back issues—and ebook back issue bundles—of Lightspeed’s (recently revived, other) sister-magazine, Fantasy. To check those out, just visit fantasy-magazine.com/store. You can buy each Fantasy bundle for $24.99, or you can buy the complete run of Fantasy Magazine— all 57 issues—for just $114.99 (that’s $10 off buying all the bundles individually, and more than $55 off the cover price!).

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

The Editors

We already offer ebook subscriptions as a way of supporting the magazines, but we wanted to add an additional option to allow folks to support us, thus we’ve launched a Patreon (patreon.com/JohnJosephAdams).

TL;DR Version

If you enjoy Fantasy, Nightmare, and/or Lightspeed, our Patreon page is a way for you to help support those endeavors by chipping in a buck or more on a recurring basis. Your support will help us bring bigger and better (and more) projects into the world.

Why Patreon?

There are no big companies supporting or funding our magazines, so they really rely on reader support. Though we offer the magazines online for free, we’re able to fund them by selling ebook subscriptions or website advertising.

While we have a dedicated ebook subscriber base, the vast majority of our readers consume the magazine online for free. If just 10% of our website readers pledged just $1 a month, the magazines would be doing fantastically well. So we thought it might be useful to have an option like Patreon for readers who maybe haven’t considered supporting the magazine, or who maybe haven’t because they don’t have any desire to receive the ebook editions—or who would be glad to pay $1 a month, but not $3 (the cost of a monthly subscriber issue of Lightspeed).

Though Fantasy, Nightmare, and Lightspeed are separate entities, we decided to create a single “publisher” Patreon account because it seemed like it would be more efficient to manage just one account.

Basically, we wanted to create a crowdfunding page where, if you enjoy the work Adamant Press puts out, and you want to contribute a little something to help make it easier for us to produce more cool projects, then our Patreon is the place to do that.

What Do I Get Out of Being a Patron?

Well, you get the satisfaction of helping to usher the creation of cool new short fiction projects into the world! Plus, the more support we get, the better we can make the magazines and compensate our authors and staff. By becoming a supporter via Patreon, you help fund our growth and continued publication of three award-winning magazines. Of course, if you’re already one of our ebook subscribers (thank you!), you are already supporting us. This is for those who prefer to read the issues each month on our free websites, or wish to support our efforts more generally.

By becoming a supporter, you are also bestowed a title, such as Dragonrider, or Space Wizard, or Savior of the World and/or Universe, thus making you instantly the envy of all your friends.

Thank You!

If you’ve read this far, thanks so much. We hope you’ll consider becoming a backer on Patreon. That URL again is patreon.com/JohnJosephAdams.

Thanks in advance for your time. We look forward to hopefully being able to make the magazines—and our other publishing endeavors—even better with the support of people like you.

About the Lightspeed Team

The Editors

Publisher/Editor-in-Chief

John Joseph Adams

Managing/Senior Editor

Wendy N. Wagner

Associate Editor & Book Reviewer

Arley Sorg

Podcast Producer

Stefan Rudnicki

Podcast Editor/Host

Jim Freund

Art Director

John Joseph Adams

Assistant Editor

Laurel Amberdine

Editorial Interns

Mayookh Barua

Madison Brake

Reviewers

Arley Sorg

Chris Kluwe

Aigner Loren Wilson

Copy Editor

Luke Tolvaj

Proofreaders

Anthony R. Cardno

Devin Marcus

Webmaster

Jeremiah Tolbert of Clockpunk Studios

Associate Publisher/Director of Special Projects

Christie Yant

Assistant Publisher

Robert Barton Bland

Reprint Editor (Emeritus)

Rich Horton

Also Edited by John Joseph Adams

The Editors

If you enjoy reading our Adamant Press magazines, you might also enjoy these works edited by our publisher John Joseph Adams:

ANTHOLOGIES

- THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 1: The End is Nigh (with Hugh Howey)

- THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 2: The End is Now (with Hugh Howey)

- THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 3: The End Has Come (with Hugh Howey)

- Armored

- Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015 (with Joe Hill)

- Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2016 (with Karen Joy Fowler)

- Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2017 (with Charles Yu)

- Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2018 (with N.K. Jemisin)

- Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2019 (with Carmen Maria Machado)

- Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2020 (with Diana Gabaldon)

- Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2021 (with Veronica Roth)

- Brave New Worlds

- By Blood We Live

- Cosmic Powers

- Dead Man’s Hand

- THE DYSTOPIA TRIPTYCH, Vol. 1: Ignorance is Strength (with Hugh Howey and Christie Yant)

- THE DYSTOPIA TRIPTYCH, Vol. 2: Burn the Ashes (with Hugh Howey and Christie Yant)

- THE DYSTOPIA TRIPTYCH, Vol. 3: Or Else the Light (with Hugh Howey and Christie Yant)

- Epic: Legends of Fantasy

- Federations

- The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

- HELP FUND MY ROBOT ARMY!!! and Other Improbable Crowdfunding Projects

- Lightspeed: Year One

- The Living Dead

- The Living Dead 2

- Loosed Upon the World

- Lost Worlds and Mythological Kingdoms

- The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination

- Operation Arcana

- Other Worlds Than These

- Oz Reimagined (with Douglas Cohen)

- A People’s Future of the United States (with Victor LaValle)

- Press Start to Play (with Daniel H. Wilson)

- Robot Uprisings (with Daniel H. Wilson)

- Seeds of Change

- Under the Moons of Mars

- Wastelands

- Wastelands 2

- Wastelands: The New Apocalypse

- The Way of the Wizard

- What the #@&% is That? (with Douglas Cohen)

NOVELS and COLLECTIONS

- Beacon 23 by Hugh Howey

- Wool by Hugh Howey

- Shift by Hugh Howey

- Dust by Hugh Howey

- The Silo Saga Omnibus by Hugh Howey

- Bannerless by Carrie Vaughn

- Sand by Hugh Howey

- Retrograde by Peter Cawdron

- Machine Learning: New and Collected Stories by Hugh Howey

- Creatures of Will and Temper by Molly Tanzer

- The City of Lost Fortunes by Bryan Camp

- The Robots of Gotham by Todd McAulty

- The Wild Dead by Carrie Vaughn

- The Spaceship Next Door by Gene Doucette

- In the Night Wood by Dale Bailey

- Creatures of Want and Ruin by Molly Tanzer

- Break the Bodies, Haunt the Bones by Micah Dean Hicks

- The Chaos Function by Jack Skillingstead

- Upon a Burning Throne by Ashok K. Banker

- Gather the Fortunes by Bryan L. Camp

- Reentry by Peter Cawdron

- Half Way Home by Hugh Howey

- Chosen Ones by Veronica Roth

- Creatures of Charm and Hunger by Molly Tanzer

- The Unfinished Land by Greg Bear

- The Conductors by Nicole Glover

- A Dark Queen Rises by Ashok K. Banker

- The Apocalypse Seven by Gene Doucette

- Questland by Carrie Vaughn

- The Undertakers by Nicole Glover

Visit johnjosephadams.com to learn more about all of the above.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

FROM THE EDITOR

Editorial: March 2022

SCIENCE FICTION

Merc Fenn Wolfmoor | The Heaven That They Never Knew

Daniel David Froid | An Exegesis of the Socioreligious Ramifications of the Collection of Peribi

Robert Reed | Parables of Infinity

Julianna Baggott | The Historiography of Loss

FANTASY

Shiv Ramdas | Bhatia, PI

Nicole D. Sconiers | Hood Alchemy

Maria Dong | Nine Tails of a Soap Empire

Alyssa Wong | All the Time We’ve Left to Spend

EXCERPTS

Sweep of Stars

NONFICTION

Book Review: The Blood Trials by N.E. Davenport

Book Review: Screams From the Dark, edited by Ellen Datlow

Book Review: Hunt The Stars, by Jessie Mihalik

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

Shiv Ramdas

Daniel David Froid

Maria Dong

Julianna Baggott

MISCELLANY

Coming Attractions

Stay Connected

Subscriptions and Ebooks

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

About the Lightspeed Team

Also Edited by John Joseph Adams