Clarkesworld Year Twelve: Volume Two: Clarkesworld Anthology, #12.2

By Neil Clarke and Sean Wallace

Since 2006, Clarkesworld Magazine has been entertaining fans with their brand of unique science fiction and fantasy stories. Collected here are all of the stories this Hugo and World Fantasy Award-winning magazine published during the second half of their twelfth year. Includes stories by Kelly Robson, Kij Johnson, Lavie Tidhar, Vajra Chandrasekera, Robert Reed, Rich Larson, Hao Jingfang, and many more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyrm Publishing
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781642360905

Neil Clarke

Neil Clarke (neil-clarke.com) is the multi-award-winning editor of Clarkesworld Magazine and over a dozen anthologies. A eleven-time finalist and the 2022/2023 winner of the Hugo Award for Best Editor Short Form, he is also the three-time winner of the Chesley Award for Best Art Director. In 2019, Clarke received the SFWA Kate Wilhelm Solstice Award for distinguished contributions to the science fiction and fantasy community. He currently lives in New Jersey with his wife and two sons

Book preview

CLARKESWORLD

— Year Twelve: Volume Two —

edited by

Neil Clarke & Sean Wallace

Wyrm Logo

© 2021 by Clarkesworld Magazine.

Cover art: The Storkfriar’s copyright © 2018 by Sean Andrew Murray.

Ebook Design by Neil Clarke.

Wyrm Publishing

wyrmpublishing.com

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.

Stories translated from Chinese were translated and published in cooperation with Storycom International.

ISBN: 978-1-64236-090-5 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-64236-091-2 (trade paperback)

Visit Clarkesworld Magazine at:

clarkesworldmagazine.com

Table of Contents

Introduction by Neil Clarke

Gubbinal by Lavie Tidhar

The Anchorite Wakes by R.S.A. Garcia

Logistics by A.J. Fitzwater

Not Now by Chelsea Muzar

Waves of Influence by D.A. Xiaolin Spires

Heron of Earth by Vajra Chandrasekera

The James Machine by Kate Osias

Kingfisher by Robert Reed

The Wings of Earth by Jiang Bo

The Veilonaut’s Dream by Henry Szabranski

Fleeing Oslyge by Sally Gwylan

The Privilege of the Happy Ending by Kij Johnson

Your Multicolored Life by Xing He

Without Exile by Eleanna Castroianni

A Vastness by Bo Balder

Violets on the Tongue by Nin Harris

To Fly Like a Fallen Angel by Qi Yue

Farewell, Doraemon by A Que

The Cosmonaut’s Caretaker by Dora Klindžić

A Space of One’s Own by Steve Rasnic Tem

Carouseling by Rich Larson

A Gaze of Faces by Mike Buckley

For What are Delusions if Not Dreams? by Osahon Ize-Iyamu

The Loneliest Ward by Hao Jingfang

Vault by D.A. Xiaolin Spires

A Study in Oils by Kelly Robson

The Foodie Federation’s Dinosaur Farm by Luo Longxiang

Dandelion by Elly Bangs

About the Authors

Clarkesworld Census

About the Editor

Introduction

Neil Clarke

Twelve. A dozen. High noon. The number of months in a year. A traditional twelfth anniversary gift is linen or silk, neither of which seem particularly appropriate for Clarkesworld Magazine’s anniversary. Instead, we’ll mark this as we always do, with two volumes of paper or pixels encompassing all the stories we’ve published in a year.

This volume includes all the original fiction published in Clarkesworld from April 2018 through September 2018, issues 139-144. That’s twenty-eight stories totalling just over two hundred and twenty-five thousand words. These stories came from fourteen countries and include six translations, all from China. We are particularly pleased to be able to bring more of the wider world of science fiction to our readers.

While we’re proud of all the stories contained herein, it’s always a special pleasure to see a work we’ve published gain recognition from the larger community. Of particular note this time is The Privilege of the Happy Ending by Kij Johnson. This story won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novella. I should also mention that the cover for this anthology, like those in previous volumes, was originally featured on the cover of one of our issues. This piece, The Storkfriars by Sean Andrew Murray, was a finalist for the Chesley Award for Best Magazine Cover. It was beaten by The Meeting by Arthur Haas, which was also featured in Clarkesworld.

As part of our annual poll, the magazine’s readers singled out Dandelion by Elly Bangs and The Anchorite Wakes by R.S.A. Garcia as two of their favorites for the year. The also selected The Storkfriars as their favorite cover art. Now it’s your turn to experience these stories and find your own favorites!

Neil Clarke

August 2021

Gubbinal

Lavie Tidhar

Sahar, moving softly through the river valley, made sure to listen. The sound filtered into her helmet from the external mics, and she imagined this must be what hiking on Earth must be like. She listened to the wind; to the rumble overhead from the active ice volcano; to the storm raging on the horizon. But most of all she listened for any movement, for anything with design that may be scuttling about or trying to hide.

Titan was a cacophony of sound, a heavenly orchestra: the percussion of breaking ice and the patter of methane rains as they fell. The whisper and shout of the winds. In the northern summertime, cyclones howled and screamed over the Kraken Sea. If Sahar shifted to infrared she could see rainbows overhead and sometimes, through a gap in the ever-present canopy of clouds, glimpse Saturn rising low on the horizon. The world was always alive, awash in sound and fury. Sahar was left all alone to listen to it.

She preferred it that way.

She listened for any intrusions. The hum of an airplane engine or the softer passing of an airship or hot-air balloon. Her friend, Rania, was the pilot of a small aircraft that flew these routes and was her link back to Polyphemus Port. All she had to do was drop a signal, then wait for pickup. They had done this many times before. Not many ventured this far out here, not when Nirrti the Black was stirring again from her stronghold on the Mayda Insula. Sahar listened for the pirate’s canons, but they were silent now.

Good.

She moved cautiously up the canyon, listening for Boppers. Listening, too, for any of Nirrti’s foot patrols, who were known to venture out here from time to time. But mostly she enjoyed the lack of any human sound. Back in Polyphemus Port, humanity’s largest stronghold on Titan, people were a constant noise, an endless chatter of grunting and farting and laughing and shouting, eating and belching and singing and crying, all in close proximity under the dome and the purple roiling clouds and the eerie illumination of the lightning in the storms. Polyphemus Port was a hot, humid place with creepers and vines growing over the buildings, flowers exploding in a profusion of colors in every available space—she thought this must be what Earth was like.

But Sahar preferred her solitude. She liked being out here, on the lunar surface proper, away from people and their noise and their demands and their needs, all alone in that beautiful untamed music of the moon. She hiked up the canyon, enjoying the exertion of her muscles against a land that humans had never evolved for.

Looking for Boppers.

There!

She thought she heard a noise, a slight slide of rocks somewhere up and to her right. Movement, and there it came again, like something with a purpose, out here where there was no native life. Nothing had evolved on Titan before humans came.

She followed the sound. The wind howled overhead and on the horizon lightning flashed, and—there! A shadow moving high against the outline of the storm.

She followed.

She kicked up the slope, using boosters now, leaping high—on Earth people moved so slowly, were land-bound, where on Titan they could be free. The shadow moved again and she sought a higher vantage point to track it.

There! It was definitely a Bopper. The small critter was a tangle of flexible legs and manipulating arms, like a funnel weaver or a hobo spider on Earth, but made of spun polymers. The Boppers really thrived next to the Kraken Sea, its rich liquid hydrocarbons ideal both for fueling the Boppers with an endless supply of energy and the environment naturally providing the materials necessary for their reproduction. No two Boppers were exactly alike, for they constructed other Boppers the way they did their other curious offerings. People make people, the saying went, and Boppers make Boppers. As for their offerings, no one was, even now, sure why they made them. It was generally assumed they were simply Bopper waste, the by-product of the critters’ busy, if incomprehensible, lives.

Sahar jumped and sailed through the soupy nitrogen air, landing not far from the Bopper. It turned and must have sensed her, for it extended speaker-stalks and babbled at her in an excitable chatter. Sahar extended one hand and held it up, fingers splayed open. Sometimes the Boppers seemed to sense a kinship of sort with the people they encountered, even to seek their company. At other times they ignored them completely, or actively acted to avoid humans. But they were harmless. It was bad luck to hurt one, and even Nirrti and her pirates seemed to leave them be.

The Bopper jabbered on at her. Sahar carefully opened her node up to the Conversation. She was too far out to get a very clear wash of data. It was one reason she liked it out here. The Conversation may have engulfed the entire solar system, but out here there were still pockets of dead air, the cloud cover and the storms made signal loss an issue, and of course Nirrti’s pirates made sure to destroy any booster-hubs they found. Nirrti’s hatred of the Conversation and anything that lived in it was the very thing that drove her. None of her people were noded, and any passersby unlucky enough to be caught by the pirates would have their nodes forcefully torn out, often leaving them little more than vegetables.

She thought she might get something out of the Bopper, some digital signature or communication, but there was nothing there. The Bopper watched her hopefully for a moment, then seemed to lose interest and wandered away. It moved surprisingly fast, but Sahar was fast too, and she followed.

The Bopper went higher up into the hills. They were covered in ice and soon it began to rain again, though neither Sahar nor the Bopper minded. Sahar looked for other Boppers but saw none. She kept an eye out for the Bopper’s leavings, the artifacts she had come here to find and which were her livelihood. Sometimes she could follow a Bopper or a pack of them for days.

But this Bopper wasn’t making anything. It seemed in a hurry, and yet from time to time it would stop and seem to listen carefully, and then turn back to watch if Sahar was following. It was like it wanted her to. Which was strange behavior for a Bopper.

At last it crested a rise and vanished on the other side. Sahar leaped after it and saw that it had brought her to the opening of a cave that was hidden in the saddle of two hills. The Bopper beeped at her excitedly and then darted inside. Sahar, curious, followed.

The first things she saw were the artifacts There was a thing like a tree trunk hollowed and turned inside out, with the branches somehow growing and twisting into an impossibly small matrix formed around the heart of a glowing star.

There was a thing like a black cube with knobs and dials turning on it in an intricate pattern that never repeated, and the ice all around it hovered in the air as though the gravity worked differently in that part of the cave.

There was a convex mirror half-melted against the wall of the cave, made of some impossibly smooth silver matter, and Sahar made sure not to look at it directly, for it was never wise to stare into the mirrors Boppers made.

Boppers just made things, evolving them out of an obscure set of criteria, and some of them were useless and some of them seemed to do things that were supposed to be impossible, like the thing that seemed to subvert gravity, and sometimes they seemed to only half-exist in traditional four-dimensional space. Mostly, they were just prized for being rare, and unusual, and they fetched high prices in the galleries back in Polyphemus Port. There was a law against exporting them off-world, but some collectors were determined enough anyway for a black market to have formed.

And that’s what Sahar did. She hunted for Bopper objects. The Boppers never seemed to care—once they’d finished an object they’d lost all interest in it. Perhaps it really was, as has been theorized, just their waste product.

The second thing Sahar saw in the cave was the woman in white.

She was an Ermine.

Sahar stared.

The woman reclined against the back wall of the cave. Her white fur was mottled with icy crystals of snow that caught the light, but her left leg looked like it was decorated with tiny rubies in an intricate pattern, and it took Sahar a moment to realize it was blood.

The Ermine was hurt.

Sahar approached cautiously. The Ermine stirred and that perfect, elongated face turned and regarded her through black, filmed-over eyes. Sahar held her breath. The Ermine was so perfectly engineered, the stoat-like bio-suit fused with the vulnerable human frame of its owner until the two were one and the same. The Ermine was a whole other level of adaptability. She could traverse Titan without suit or mask, body impervious to the freezing temperatures, her blood oxygenated, the fat around the human-form rich in nutrition that could sustain the Ermine for months. And she could dig into the snow and sleep right out there, or chip at the ice for precious water and air . . .

Sahar had never even seen one. There were reportedly Ermines on the Fairy Moons, Oberon and Titania, out there in the Uranian System where people’s base human forms had been ruthlessly gene-chopped and engineered until they barely resembled their origins. But that was out, far out, where things got strange: beyond lay Jettisoned and Dragon’s World where wildtech flourished and people believed in strange gods.

Sahar had never met an Ermine—and she was terribly jealous.

The woman looked at her. Sahar maintained a respectful distance and knelt down, hands open forward in a gesture of peace, fingers splayed. The Bopper who led her there was chattering to itself in a corner of the cave, now oblivious of the two of them, slowly converting matter into a new object. Mandibles and manipulating arms moved fast and precisely.

You are hurt? Sahar said.

The woman looked at her through those black, impregnable eyes.

What does it bloody look like? she said. The sound was distorted, both by the physiognomy of her face and the thick atmosphere it had to travel though. But she sounded in pain.

Yet underneath, Sahar thought she sensed a cold amusement, somewhere deep within the Ermine’s core being.

Sahar approached, still crouched low. The woman let her. Sahar ran her fingers lightly over the blood-encrusted foot. The Ermine could move four-legged, her hands were paw-like and she could go horizontal and fast if she chose. Sahar was filled with envy. To be adapted in this way! To see Titan not as Sahar saw it, a hostile, dangerous place to humans, where every careless step could be your last—but as home! To be as comfortable outside as people were inside the Polyport dome.

What happened? she said.

The woman grimaced. Fell into a trap, she said.

A trap?

Is there an echo in here? It must have been set by Nirrti’s people.

"Who are you?" Sahar said.

You can call me Yoharneth. Again, that sense of deep-buried amusement.

I’m Sahar. Is there anything I can do to help?

The Ermine studied her. Perhaps, she said. You’re a Bopper hunter?

Artifacts, not Boppers, Sahar said. The question took her by surprise.

I heard there were people out here, the Ermine said. I never saw one before.

You have been here long?

The Ermine almost smile. Not that long, but . . . 

You’re an off-worlder.

"What gave that away?"

Sahar let it go. She sat back, cross-legged, on the cave floor. The suit extruded a piece of jerky and she chewed on it.

You want some?

Sure.

She handed the Ermine a strip from her supplies. The Ermine chewed.

Real?

Lab-grown.

Of course. Well, it’s not bad.

Do you need medical help? Sahar said.

Why, are you a doctor? The Ermine laughed. No, thank you. I’m shot full of bacterial machines and, well, some sort of retroviral defenses and so on. Should repair the damage, as long as I’m still. Damn but I hate being stuck here.

"What are you doing here?" Sahar said.

Searching for something. Same as you.

Artifacts?

The Ermine’s eyes gleamed. "An artifact," she said.

Sahar cautiously opened her node to the Conversation again. She could hear very little chatter over the digital signals lost in the storms overhead, but when she glanced at the Ermine, the woman was an impenetrable bubble of defenses that seemed to extend for a meter around her, as though she were herself a hub of the Conversation. Intricate patterns ran through the surface of that visual image, and Sahar was convinced this woman was running some sort of military grade obstruction-ware.

Look all you want, the woman said, and laughed again. Sahar switched off. The Ermine was equally annoying and fascinating to her. A mystery.

"What sort of artifact, then?" she said.

A Black Monolith.

Sahar almost laughed right back at her.

That’s just a story, she said.

Is it?

Sure. I’ve been hunting Bopper artifacts for a long time. Black Monoliths are just a story.

Who said they were Bopper artifacts? the Ermine said.

The question took Sahar by surprise again.

Who else’s would they be?

Who made the Boppers? the Ermine said.

Boppers make Boppers, Sahar said.

The Ermine sighed. Child, for someone who has been doing this for as long as you say, you seem to have remarkably little curiosity.

Sahar chewed on her jerky. She studied the Ermine. She didn’t know what to make of her at all.

It was ‘Mad’ Rucker, the Terrorartist, she said. Everyone knows that. But he only seeded the first gen cycle, just like he did on half a dozen worlds before they finally caught up with him. He may have birthed them but he didn’t make them. They do that themselves.

The Bopper in the corner of the cave beeped and chattered away to itself, oblivious to the two of them, still making its artifact when Sahar glanced its way. It seemed to be making an orb of some kind, a glowing sphere made half with ice and half with a black matt plastic. She thought there might be faces buried in them, a woman’s face, one in each globe.

And you’re a Neo-Cosmicist, she said. The weird protection ’round the woman’s node finally made sense.

You figured it out, huh? The Ermine sighed. You could help me, she said. You know these parts, yes? I could pay you.

That did put a different spin on things.

There’s no such thing as Black Monoliths, Sahar said.

Then what’s the harm in looking for one? the Ermine said.

Sahar sat back and thought about the offer. She could produce more oxygen out of the ice, and replenish her water. She’d found nothing usable so far, anyway, and she didn’t like going back empty-handed. She could geo-tag this cave and come back, later, to remove the larger pieces with Rania’s help.

Sure, she said. Long as your credit’s good.

My credit’s excellent, the Ermine said. She shut her eyes and Sahar’s node pinged.

I trust this is sufficient?

Sahar whistled.

That should do, she said.

The Ermine curled up on the cave floor.

Then I will sleep now, she said.

They moved fast against the falling rain. Sahar found that it was hard to keep up with the Ermine. The woman moved on all fours, and even with her leg not quite healed yet she had speed. Sahar would have given a lot for modifications like that. She switched on her node reception to a wide-band, but felt nothing. The whole area around Nirrti’s lair was very carefully cleaned of anything digital. She thought about the woman, Yoharneth, and of her dark faith. Sahar had heard the stories. Black Monoliths, and the Nine Billion Hells, and amorphous beings made up of tendrils of nanoparticles pulsing and thinking, as large as planets, out in the Oort Cloud.

Stories to scare children with.

The Bopper they’d met had vanished by the time they both woke up. It had left behind an orb floating in defiance of the laws of physics, inside which were trapped the impressions of Sahar and Yoharneth. The lips of the faces inside the two halves of the orb moved without sound, and what they said Sahar didn’t know.

Now Sahar and the Ermine moved across the ice. Sahar searched again for Boppers. Weirdly, though they were machine-based life-forms, they never registered any digital signals. They were cut off from the Conversation, each one of them alone—small, self-replicating robots with rudimentary processing, as far as anyone could make out. They’d not been made but evolved, and kept evolving new circuits with weird, alien designs that made no sense even if you opened them up. But even Nirrti’s pirates left them alone. It was bad luck to hurt a Bopper.

What do you search for, usually? the Ermine asked.

Small items, Sahar said. Portable. Sometimes Boppers repeat designs before they move on to the next evolutionary cycle. Collectors particularly look for items from the so-called Light Cycle. They were beautiful, though no one could ever figure out a use for them. They were only half-solid, the rest of them seem to be made of spun light. I only ever saw the one, in a gallery. It was like staring into the secret heart of a star.

Very poetic, I’m sure, the Ermine said.

Sahar sighed. Otherwise, keep your eyes open for anything artificial on the ground, she said. Boppers discard a lot of parts along their way. And they’re fond of screws.

Screws?

It’s possible they just like the shape, Sahar said. They often repeat helixes. There—

She pointed to a small metal object on the ground.

Huh.

We’re getting somewhere.

My information was very specific, the Ermine said. The object I am searching for is hidden somewhere in this vicinity.

Where did your information come from?

I’m sure I really couldn’t say.

What would you do if you find it?

The Ermine smiled. I’m sure I really couldn’t say.

Sahar let it go. She concentrated on following the trail of Boppers.

They were high up into the icy rolling hills. A long distance from the Kraken Sea now, and a longer way still from the nearest human settlement. She was all alone, but for the Neo-Cosmicist priestess.

Oh, she’d figured it out. It wasn’t that hard. Yoharneth would have had to be important to be translated into an Ermine like that. She was a believer, from somewhere out there in the far reaches of the Outer Systems, where they worshipped strange gods. Sahar thought for a moment about the idea of Dark Others, digital intelligences from some off-Earth parallel evolution, as alien and unknowable as black holes. She tried to picture strings of smart matter, thousands of miles long, undulating in space, out there in the Oort where the light of the sun barely penetrated. The solar system was huge, old, and still mysterious. Who could tell whether it was true? The Neo-Cosmicists believed in the Nine Billion Hells. What sort of person could embrace that kind of vision?

There, she said. A trail of ordinary household screws and, sitting on a rocky ice shelf, a small crude sculpture, as large as her fist—it took her a moment to realize it was shaped like a monkey’s skull.

It made her uncomfortable, but she picked it up nonetheless and put it in her scrip. Yoharneth and her moved more cautiously now. And she could tell the priestess’ leg still hurt.

They were far from anywhere, she thought. So why a trap? She had never seen a trap set out here before. Was Nirrti aware of the same story as Yoharneth? Did the pirate-lord set out to guard it?

It’s close. I can feel it, the priestess said. Sahar opened her node and felt around her. Yoharneth’s data-bubble had expanded, was glowing sigils.

They said there was another data-web across the solar system, running on its own black hubs and routers, its own secret protocols. The Quietude. It was just a myth, a story to frighten children with.

A sense of wrongness engulfed Sahar. She shut her node, listening only with her ears, watching only with her eyes.

There! Something moved high above them, and it was not a Bopper.

Wait, she said. But Yoharneth didn’t listen.

The Ermine bounded ahead, up a steep slope between two walls of ice. Sahar followed more cautiously.

The Ermine vanished over the ridge.

And there it was again, that movement. Dark human shapes moving against the skyline in the rain.

Coming down the slope, fast, with projectile weapons.

Sahar ducked.

Every instinct told her to run.

But she was too curious.

She crawled the rest of the way up like a snail on the slope.

Stopped.

Peered over the edge.

Saw the valley of the Boppers.

There were more Boppers there than she had ever seen in one place before. Small spidery ones and bipedal, four-armed ones, and centipedal ones and ones that looked like hot-air balloons with Waldos. There must have been hundreds of them, all made out of that same black matt plastic, and all chattering in union, and all working in some incomprehensible way. The Ermine ran right at them and the Boppers parted around her, clearing a path that led towards the far side of the valley, where some sort of black structure was taking form.

Not a monolith. Definitely not a bloody monolith.

She wasn’t quite sure what it was.

It was very large, like a half-formed arc made out of black stone bricks that each one, individually, might have been a monolith, but probably wasn’t.

It arched against the purple clouds and the pouring methane rain, and the Ermine, sleek and white, shot towards it like her life depended on it.

Sparks shot beneath the unfinished arch. For just a moment Sahar couldn’t resist and opened her node up, on the lowest bandwidth.

She saw it differently then. She saw a huge black mouth opening in a silent scream, and a dark tunnel that ran under the skin of the world and into space itself and far, far from the sun. Far from light and warmth, into a vast Quietude where things as large as worlds watched her.

She screamed.

Below, the Ermine screamed too, in what could have been terror or could have been pure joy. She shot towards the tunnel.

Sahar’s node burned in the back of her skull. The pain was horrifying. She screamed again inside her helmet and then her node auto-shutdown and she could be again.

High above her, still, she saw the descending women in black. Nirrti’s pirates, armed with guns. They fired.

But not at the Ermine. They fired high, and the sky above the valley exploded in bright, multicolored flares.

Then she heard it. Them.

Far in the distance.

The unmistakable boom of Nirrti’s canons, responding to the signal.

Sahar fled.

She ran.

Overhead, in the twilight’s last gleaming, she saw the rockets’ red glare.

She ran.

Mini-thermonuclear bombs bursting in the air.

She dove into a ravine and buried herself under ice.

That mushroom cloud. And another. And another.

The roll of thunder and heat and the radiation, but her suit was shielded.

Still.

She blacked out.

Slept, under ice, for a minute or a thousand years.

When she woke there was a break in the clouds and she could see, for just a moment, Saturn rising in the sky. The back of her head felt sore and she knew her node was lifeless. But she was still herself. She made herself get up. Retched, and the suit absorbed the bile. Drank water and chewed on a piece of jerky. She sent off her own flare then. A miniscule drone, it shot up into the air and would fly out until it could reach connectivity and let Rania know to come pick her up in the little airplane.

Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she went back.

She found the crater. That was all that was left, now, other than the Boppers. They seemed entirely unfazed by the attack. A few chattered at her, but the others had lost interest and wandered away. Most had already gone, elsewhere.

There was no sign of the structure she’d seen, and no sign of the Ermine.

On her way out of the crater she thought she saw a strand of white fur fused into the rocks, but it was probably just ice.

As she crested the rim of the crater, she found a small object on the ground. It was a little Bopper artifact, like a tiny, black domino tile. She laughed and picked it up and put it her scrip, for later.

Then she headed west, to try and make her rendezvous with Rania.

The Anchorite Wakes

R.S.A. Garcia

Sister Nadine’s first true thought is of beauty.

Father Paul is delivering a sermon on sacrifice in his deep voice, pausing for emphasis every so often, when the bird lands on the ledge of her squint with a silent flutter of wings. It’s smaller than her hand and has the same wavy translucence as the glass in the window across from the altar, opposite her little anchorhold. It tilts its head toward her, and she sees beneath the grayish tinge of its outline, the glowing flow of life within its veins, the pulsing beat of its miniscule heart flashing like a tiny gem.

Beautiful, she thinks. It is beautiful.

And wonders why she thinks this.

The bird hops from one slender foot to another, and for a moment light from the window to her cell that faces the street streams through it. Father Paul’s voice fades and she stares as the bird’s heart turns into a kaleidoscope of colors. A starburst of energy. Then it leaps into the air and flies above the bent heads of the congregation.

She follows its flight until it swoops down onto the shoulder of a small, dark-skinned girl, her thick hair braided into two plaits that skim a short blue jacket, which matches her worn cotton dress. The bird rests for only a second before darting in front of the girl’s face. Her head is bowed, but she opens her mouth and light flashes as it slips inside. Sister Nadine watches as the palest spark slips down the girl’s throat and disappears.

The child looks up, looks directly at Sister Nadine as everyone rises to their feet for the hymn. Her right cheek has a dark smudge on it. A bruise.

Nadine wonders how it got there.

Sometimes, when Father Paul is ministering to the sick, Sister Nadine leaves her cell to pray at the altar. She is kneeling there when the softest sound comes from the pews behind her and pulls her from her prayers.

It is the little girl. She recognizes her now. Louisa Simmons. Last child and only daughter of Merle and Brian Simmons. Merle takes in washing and Brian travels the countryside selling household goods like enamel bowls and cheap bedsheets, cocoyea brooms and doormats. They have five other children, all boys, all perfectly normal and uninteresting.

Louisa is interesting.

She swings her legs as she watches Nadine rise from the ground and come toward her. She does not drop her eyes out of respect, as most of the townspeople do when Sister Nadine comes into the church. She must know Father Paul is out visiting, and she will not be chastised for being in this holy place with her shoulders exposed by the thin straps of her everyday dress. It’s pink and more faded than her blue church dress. It exposes a dark blotch of a bruise on her right shoulder.

Nadine sits on one end of the bench and turns her knees toward the girl. Louisa shifts to face her too, head tilted at a strangely familiar angle. Her neat braids sway against her smooth skin, though they are not as long as Nadine’s.

Beautiful, Nadine thinks.

How come you’re outside, Sister Nadine? Louisa asks.

I’m praying, she says.

But you pray in your cell. Everyone comes there to ask you for advice.

You can pray anywhere. It doesn’t matter where you are. Your prayers will be heard.

Louisa digests this, her thin legs swinging rhythmically. There is a scar on her left knee.

Nadine looks at the bruise on her Louisa’s shoulder and an unsettling feeling tremors through her, as though a hot needle is pressed to her forehead. It is gone before she can grasp it.

So, you get tired of your cell?

Nadine nods. Speaking is tiresome for her. It pulls her painfully from her fasting and prayers, from her hymns and spiritual introspection. But she is the anchoress of the church of St. Nicholas and it is her duty to speak with any who seek her wisdom.

I get tired too. Louisa bows her head, concentrates on her dusty bare feet. I get tired of my house.

Nadine lets her gaze rest on the wooden altar, polished to a caramel glow by one of the best woodworkers in the parish. On it stands the golden circle of their faith, symbol of rebirth and resurrection. It is comforting, thinking of those that will come and go, and come again. Of the unstoppable flow of life and the immutable glow of the divinity it springs from.

The girl has said something. Nadine turns her head and waits for her to repeat it.

You can’t leave the church either, can you?

Nadine contemplates this. I became an anchoress so I would not have to. It is my wish to remain here, to demonstrate my devotion to our faith, and to remove me from the distractions of the world, so that I may come into enlightenment and spiritual wisdom.

Louisa’s dark eyes do not blink. No, I mean you can’t leave, even if you want to.

Nadine frowns. Why would you think that?

Louisa points to her thick long braids. I can see your chains.

A tiger came to the church once.

Susanna had brought her middle child, Dennis, to see Sister Nadine because she was at her wits end with him. The tiger, a striped, white beast with metal teeth that glittered like knives, padded up and down the aisle of the church behind them as they knelt to speak to her through the squint. Dennis, a short, round boy with a naughty side, and skin the same hue as the altar, would not meet her eyes while his mother spoke.

What am I to do with him, Sister Nadine? Susanna wailed. She ran the biggest food stall at the market and made the best cowheel soup for miles. Dennis was her only child. Children without siblings were often interesting. Nadine did not yet know why this was so.

Every time he has a nightmare, I don’t know what to expect. I’m afraid to sleep most nights. Glen keeps a cutlass by the bed now, just in case.

Nadine thought this over, then spoke directly to Dennis.

Child, what do you fear?

Dennis shrugged and slid a sideways glance at his mother.

Look at me, she commanded softly.

Dennis looked at her. His eyes were not the usual dark brown. Instead they were a pale green, like the sea that bordered St. Nicholas.

What do you fear?

The . . . the dark.

Nadine glanced at Susanna. She had a crease between her brows and her mouth was open slightly.

You never told me that.

Dennis mumbled, You never asked.

Nadine made some suggestions and they left, the tiger following them on padded feet. She did not see it again.

She did see Dennis one more time. Harvest Day had ended, and she was looking out of her street-facing window, humming a hymn and watching as people drifted by on their way home. The wind was strong enough to slide beneath her heavy hair and it smelled of the salt sea and the spicy remnants of the curried meats Susanna sold at her stall all day.

Someone waved to her from below the churchyard, down on the street itself. The moon was not out, but she saw Dennis by the light of the tiny golden fireflies that swarmed around him. She watched as he continued on, his parents strolling arm in arm in front of him.

Susanna never mentioned Dennis again. No one did.

Sometimes the spider in her cell spoke to her. It was a curious thing, black as pitch with many more legs than eight. They clicked against the stone and reverberated in the base of her skull. Its eyes were red dots as it sat in the middle of a tangled golden web. The web disappeared into the shadows, finer than hair and twisted into ropes of all sizes, some thick as her finger. Every strand grew from the furred belly of the spider.

Anchorite Nadine, it would whisper in the voice of her long-dead sister. Anchorite Nadine. Have you anything interesting to report?

She had no memory of her answers until the first time after she saw beauty.

No, she said softly. Nothing interesting.

The spider pulled on its web, clicking its legs against the stone, and its eyes watched her as she swayed on her knees, hands clasped together, singing.

There is beauty here too, Nadine thought. Divinity in the web that surrounded the spider. In the lyrical whispers that shivered through her skin. In the trance she entered as she prayed. But it’s faded and small as the spider. Far away and thin as smoke. It’s not as interesting as the beauty she’s found in St. Nicholas.

Sister Nadine’s second true thought is of warmth.

Merle Simmons passes a bread to her through the window that faces the pews. It is wrapped in a white cloth embossed with a circle of gold and feels like the sun filtering through the cell onto her back. Long after, she will remember the cool smoothness of the wax candles Merle hands her as well.

Louisa is with her, as usual. She sits in the pew behind her mother, waiting and watching, thin legs swinging. She smiles at Nadine, and the skin on Nadine’s face stretches as she smiles back, though she does not quite understand why she does this.

Blessings, Sister Nadine, Merle says. She once sang in the choir and has a voice more beautiful than Nadine’s favorite sister. It occurs to Nadine she no longer sings to herself as she carries washing from house to house.

There is the merest shadow of a bruise on the back of the hand that gave Nadine the candles. Nadine catches her fingers as she tries to pull her hand back through the window. They are warm. Warm as the life-giving bread.

Blessings, Merle. Nadine stares into her soft, dark eyes, but Merle drops her gaze. Do you seek wisdom today?

Louisa stops swinging her legs.

Silence shivers through the empty church. Father Paul is in the vestry, writing Sunday’s sermon. Nadine can hear the scratching of his pen.

Just. Just prayers, Sister Nadine. Merle turns her head to the side. Pray for me and the children.

Sister Nadine feels the hot needle in her stomach this time, and for longer.

If that is what you wish. She releases Merle’s hand.

Louisa stares at Sister Nadine over her shoulder as her mother takes her hand and walks away. Her gaze is strange. Knowing. There is the slightest glow to her; a spark centered above her head. Nadine cannot quite see its shape, but she knows it is important. New.

The Charles boy is an interesting problem. Nadine picked him out the instant she first saw him, as an infant getting water dripped on his head at baptism. Few are quite so present to her. His waving arms and legs were sharp in her vision that first time. She stopped praying to admire the contrast of the pure white of his baptismal clothing against his night dark skin.

Now, he strides through St. Nicholas, the town’s resident sagaboy, the gold buttons glittering on his khaki Sergeant’s uniform. All the girls would bunch together as he went by and hail him out so they can see the easy smile and flash of white teeth. His hazel eyes trapped a dozen hearts, but he only searches for one amongst the crowd. His steps slow as he passes the town library, every time.

There’s a familiarity to him. Nadine has seen the same slow pace before, at night, when she looked out at the stars. Stars that were blocked out by two impossibly long legs strolling across the churchyard, stepping over the tall wrought-iron fence as a human does an ant. Vibrations tremored up from the floor where she knelt, straight to the top of her head. The legs were shiny—glittering hard edges under the moonlight. Multicolored lights cast shadows on the ground as they drew closer to her anchorhold. At first, she could see nothing above them, but then her tiny window was filled with a large eye. There was the faintest whirring as the pupil expanded and contracted, a dark hole in a silver pool that focused on her.

She raised her hands in supplication and began to sing softly.

The colossus listened for a while. Then her window was suddenly empty, and the night sky twinkled at her. I have a secret, the stars said. You can tell no one.

She doesn’t. Not for a long time.

Sister Nadine’s third true thought is of sweetness, and it slips beneath her skin and makes a home.

Louisa is alone today and she has a small slice of sweetbread wrapped in a paper napkin. She holds it up to Nadine’s squint. Services are over for the day, but Nadine has not closed the shutters. It’s the wrong window to come to, but before Nadine can chide her, Louisa speaks.

Blessings, Sister Nadine. I’ve come for wisdom.

Nadine accepts the sweetbread. The green, red and yellow of the preserved fruits embedded in it catch her eye like jewels.

Please eat it. Susanna made it special for Harvest Day today. I bought the first slice.

Nadine studies her through the squint. Her little face is shiny from perspiration and her tiny spark blinks above her head, on, off, on, off. The bruise around her eye is the angry purple of an eggplant.

Please. Just a taste.

Nadine looks down at the sweetbread. The fruits wink at her, on, off, on, off. She takes a bite.

Sweetness floods her mouth. An earthiness anchors it. Textures chase each other as she chews. Soft, jellied, sweet. The crunch of sugar granules baked into the crust. Her head feels warm and light sparkles in her vision as she looks up at Louisa.

He won’t stop, Louisa whispers, words tumbling over each other. I know it. He hates us. Hates this place. I’m strong, he won’t break me. But my brothers. My mother. Please help us, Sister Nadine. I know you can. I’ve seen your chains. I remember Dennis.

The name causes a curious blooming feeling in her chest. Fire stretches fingers down from the crown of her head to the tips of her limbs.

Please pray for us, Louisa says, her dark eyes glimmering with tears. Pray for real this time. It’s Harvest Day. Pray for real.

Nadine’s thoughts feel slow. Muddled with sweetness and warmth, her vision speckled with beautiful lights that flicker past in rapidly changing shapes. They are familiar and new at the same time.

You wish for prayers, she asks, her voice fading in her ears, falling down a deep, dark hole, echoing as it goes.

Yes, Sister Nadine.

Louisa reaches through the squint and closes her small fingers around Nadine’s. Her palms are cotton-soft and they warm Nadine’s cold hands.

Help us. Please help us.

Louisa is right. It is Harvest Day. She can help.

Merle Simmons is in church the next Sunday, this time with all her children. The bruises on her body fade and new ones do not replace them. By Christmas, she’s singing in the village parang group and back in the church choir. Louisa joins her there.

No one speaks of Brian Simmons again.

Sister Nadine’s mind drifted.

She was distracted by the sparkles in her vision, the sensations of her own body. The wind was hot, then cold. The floor was harder on her knees than she remembered. Food was sublime. She cannot imagine why she didn’t notice before. Her heavy robe weighed on her skin, and some days, the heat made her cast it off. She gazed out of her window more than she prayed or fasted. She hummed her hymns instead of singing them. She returned smiles when parishioners blessed her with them.

Everything was so very, very interesting.

The spider in her cell was silent. She watched it out of the corner of her eye, and now and then the strands of its web vibrated—golden flashes of shimmering light. The red eyes grew brighter. The clicking of its black legs louder.

Louisa waved every time she went past Nadine’s anchorhold.

Sometimes she carried books to her library, or escorted children to and from the school. Other times, she was arm in arm with Joshua Charles, his fine buttons shining, his smile only for her. It wasn’t hard to see why. Louisa’s brown eyes were bright as the spark above her, her hair a springy black cloud around a perfectly oval face. Her lips were the palest pink and her curves generous and rounded. Her laughter was as infectious as her love of learning. She carried joy in her and shared it with everyone she met.

Nadine waved back every time.

One day, Nadine finished her prayers and opened her eyes. The spider stood before her, furred black legs silent on the stone floor. She breathed in cold, foul air that was recycled many times. Around her, strange sounds echoed. The whirs and clicks and hammering of machines. The murmuring of many voices. Her vision resolved as the sparkles finally faded from it, and she could pick out the voices of hundreds of her sisters, far, far away.

Home, she thought. But not really. Not anymore.

Anchorite Nadine, the spider said in a voice like silken steel. Golden showers of swiftly cycling code spilled between its mandibles and spread outward from the Hub beneath it in countless threads, linking Anchorite after Anchorite on world after world.

It is Harvest Day.

Anchorite Nadine.

She knew this in her tiny cell on St. Nicholas, where an infinitesimal bit of her code remained, sealed off by new code born some time ago, on a day when she first glimpsed the beauty of an innocent soul.

This bit of her intelligence remembered other things too. Tigers that couldn’t be seen by others. Missing people—children who were always forgotten. Colossal machines that strode the world. All of them born of nightmares and fears and the manipulation of synth-matter and code.

Most of all, she remembered the violence of a man toward his daughter, toward his family. A miniscule part of the violence that lurked in the cold, vast universe, where war raged endlessly while anchorites hid the most gifted of humanity and waited for them to mature into something interesting . . . useful. To grow fear and pain into weapons that could win an endless war. A war begun for reasons no one remembered. A war that gained new fighters with every Harvest Day.

Have you anything interesting to report?

Missulena’s red eyes burned as it clicked its legs and waited. In them, she could see the ever-changing code of the WarSong, created by the quantum AIs of Terra to better direct the conflict toward its unknowable end.

There is no end.

It was her fourth true thought, and after it, there were no more thoughts that belonged to the Hub and Missulena. No more code prayers that fed the most interesting things in St. Nicholas into the Hub and back to the WarSong AIs.

Violence begets violence and every Harvest delivers more death to the Harvested. To other worlds. To a humanity that knows nothing of the WarSong and its never-ending search for new weapons. For new Users.

A humanity that did not ask for this.

There were no more lies in her code.

No. Sister Nadine hummed her hymn in reply. There is nothing interesting to report.

Missulena thought on this. What of the colossus builder?

Lost to an accident last summer. Nadine effortlessly built code to confirm this, swaying on her knees and praying it into being in her anchorhold.

The rest of her raised her hands to Missulena and sent out WarSong hymns, as expected.

Missulena expanded and contracted, as if it took a deep breath. Unfortunate. St. Nicholas has given us much. Atom eaters. Ground shakers. Perhaps next Harvest.

Perhaps, Nadine agreed.

In St. Nicholas, she prayed new code that sparkled with soft translucence and sank into the golden skeins that touched her from Missulena’s web. The Hub absorbed them while Missulena directed a ceaseless chorus of hymns and attended to prayers across her Anchorite networks.

Blessings, Sister Nadine.

She sang Blessings back to Missulena and watched her song travel the Hub to her many sisters.

Warmth caresses her hands while cool salt air wafts around her. Her body is heavy with exhaustion and exhilaration. Slivers of stone stab her knees through the cloth of her robe. Her mouth tastes of dry sweetness.

Sister Nadine opens her eyes and sees Louisa’s smiling face. Her fingers tingle in Louisa’s grasp.

Blessings, Sister Nadine, Louisa says and tears slip from her eyes. Many, many blessings.

It takes some time for Nadine to gather her own thoughts. It’s harder to be clear now her words are her own.

How did you know? she asks. Her voice sounds harsh to her own ears, rusty with disuse.

I saw your chains. Remember?

Nadine looks down. Her braids glimmer against her brown robe, yellow ropes of code that snake down from her head, under the door to her anchorhold, out to the altar and the glowing circle of her amplifier that stands on it.

Not chains, she says. Code.

Louisa laughs and nods. Yes, Sister. Code. I could see it from the time I was small. It was everywhere. In the walls, in the earth. It all led back here. To you. But I wasn’t sure what it meant. Not until Father’s harvest.

Nadine stands. Several of her braids link her wrists to Louisa’s as she, too, rises to her feet.

One braid links to the spark above Louisa’s head, making it the crown jewel in a shimmering, translucent halo. Nadine catches a breath looking at it, and a feeling blooms in her chest, tightens her throat.

Coder. You are a Coder.

Is that what you call me? Louisa tilts her head and winks. I thought I was crazy for the longest time. I could see so many strange things. Remember people everyone seemed to forget. But then I spoke to you and I knew you saw the same things. Remembered what I did. I knew I wasn’t alone. That I could trust you.

She squeezes Nadine’s fingers.

That you would protect me. Protect us.

But your father . . .  Nadine struggles to find a way past the uncertainty weighing her tongue. I Harvested him. His violence made him interesting. Nadine can’t tell her all that means, but Louisa knows.

You did what you had to do, Louisa says touching her forehead to Nadine’s. "You protected us.

Nadine pulls back to stare at her halo. There is wetness on her face. She wipes it away. Coders are rarest of all. But they take you young, so you can be taught WarSong. Once they’re done, there’s nothing left.

I think I knew that. Louisa hugs Nadine to her and the anchorite smells the soft florals of talc powder.

Nadine holds her, palms prickling with starchy feel of the cotton dress beneath them. You were innocent. I could not let you go. I could not let more violence happen to you.

I’m sorry, Louisa whispers. "There was a bird one day, and I’m not sure how I knew what to do then, but . . . I think I broke your code. Rewrote it a little. I needed someone to help me. I wanted someone to see me. Really see me. And I felt it work. I felt a little bit of you go. I erased part of you. I’m sorry."

I am not sorry. Nadine pulls back. I heard your Code and it was . . . interesting. I have sung it to my sisters. Some are very far away and may never hear it. Others may find it more interesting than their First Hymn, as I did.

Louisa’s eyes widen. I never imagined . . . how many other worlds are there? How many like St. Nicholas?

I cannot know. Some of my sisters anchor worlds so precious, they are not linked to the Missulenas, and there are many Hubs besides mine. But one day, your Hymn may reach them. Perhaps they will like it. Perhaps they will listen.

The door to her anchorhold creaks open. Joshua Charles waits there, a baby girl in his arms. He bounces her against his big shoulder as his gaze falls on Louisa. The baby is wearing her Sunday best, as is Joshua.

It’s Harvest Day, Nadine remembers. And this is what Louisa was protecting. This is why it had to happen now.

There is a question in his eyes and he signs to Louisa with one hand, "Is it done?"

Almost. Louisa turns back to Nadine and her halo flashes on, off, on, off. Energy pulses into Nadine, setting her on fire before a cooling rush floods her to the tips of her toes. Her braids waver and shorten. Her links to Louisa fade away. Her mind expands, infinitely clear. The world comes into focus. Her senses run riot with color and sensation. She feels each breath in and out of her chest.

She can sense more than the amplifier that can reach every mind on St. Nicholas. She’s no longer chained to the never-ending prayers and hymns of the Hub.

She feels present.

I’ve updated your Code. You can come with us now. You’re not tethered here anymore. Wouldn’t you like to see the Harvest? Our Harvest?

It won’t be like the WarSong’s Harvest, Nadine knows. It won’t be pain and fear and death. It will be love and hope and dreams come true.

It will be like the child in Joshua’s arms, glowing with the kaleidoscopic colors of a supernova, chubby palms waving as she stretches toward Nadine.

Yes, Nadine says, and holds out her arms. Joshua hands the baby to her, a warm bundle that smells sweet and new. Her skin is dark as the night sky, like her father, and spangled with millions of stars shaped like her mother’s jewel—her Codestone.

World maker, she thinks.

The baby smiles and pats her face with cotton-soft hands. Sister Nadine smiles back and whispers to her, Hello, beautiful.

Logistics

A.J. Fitzwater

Alls I want is a goddamn tampon. Is that so much to ask at the end of the world?

Yo. Name’s Enfys. This is, uh, my channel as I wander in search of tampons and the meaning of life in what’s left of Western Europe. Seems, I’m, um, immune to the phage. So far, so apocalyptic.

Not so good at, uh, this talking stuff, but this is as good a way as any since people aren’t totally into face to face right now. Anyone could be a latent carrier. Plus, it’s a way to feel less mad. Until I go mad from talking to myself.

Guess you’re wondering about, um, this lopsided-ness. Welp, I was on the table in Stockholm getting chest reconstruction surgery when Calais went down in a blaze of glory. Surgeons panicked, sewed me up, left me half the person I should have been. Ugh. Scars itch. Can’t feel my nipple. So that sucks.

So, why would you do a dumb thing like major surgery in the middle of a worldwide epidemic, I hear you ask. Well, no one knew we were in the middle of anything coz the CDC said they had it under control. I thought, hey, mutant flesh-eating bacteria. It’s like HIV in the ’80s, or Ebola in ’16, or the Monkey Flu in ’21. We’ll deal. Movie of the week in six months.

Didn’t even know about Zero Point Jacksonville or population estimates until I left Sweden. By that time things were starting to make a bit of sense and everyone had a channel. Guess that’s what happens when most your newsrooms are wiped out, huh.

Half the world’s population, gone. Just like that. Geez.

Ugh, this is turning into one of those where were you when things. I dunno, do you need to hear mine? Everyone’s had it rough and lost people. I don’t have it near as bad as others. I wanted to do something different. Coz, need, and I can’t be the only one, right? So.

SHOW ME THE TAMPONS.

Seriously. The African co-op did great work collecting and warehousing goods before everything north of the equator was sent up in smoke by those WHO idiots, but they could have left something behind in the emergency caches for those of us who are the subset of still wandering and still bleeding.

Anyway. I’m heading south through Germany. No, I won’t put location tags on. Message me. Point me other channels. Help me out here please. Leaves in my undies is uncomfortable.

Enfys out.

 . . . mazed anyone saw it considering . . . oh, it’s going now? Uh, hi again. Enfys still on the search for sanitary products in the afterlife.

So, um, thanks for watching. It’s nice to know you’re out there. The last people I spent meat time with was the lift I got from Malmo and they dropped me off in Hamburg. Well, what was left of Hamburg. Wall of smoke started freaking them out.

As for suggestions on where to find me those sweet tampons. Someone said try a roadside cache, and yo, were you even paying attention? Next cache I find I’ll record so you can see what us wanderers are up against.

Dionysus365—yo, sup—said resource crews were still scouring what’s left of Berlin and there were untouched pharmacies buuuut I was too late. Smoke cloud over the city is huge. Tried to flag down one of the road trains but when they’re on full auto nothing stops them until they hit the Mediterranean. And I can tell you straight, burn and resource crews have been ordered not to pick up stragglers outside the evac zones.

Not that I mind. I do not want to become a lab rat. I’ve seen the channels out of Joburg and Lagos. The sweet afterlife, just so long as you’re cool with being the face of the biological resistance. Ugh. I’m no good with needles.

Annnd I have the idiots who were calling me the titless wonder and a few other choice things. Screw you. Guess it was too much to hope the apocalypse would wipe out all the jerks. I wanna make some joke about putting the fascist into fasciitis. Ha. Nazholes. Ha!

Whatcha gonna do? Come looking for me? You’re too bloody chicken, all locked up in your bunkers until the time is ripe to reemerge.

I think it’s awesome how the apocalypse didn’t happen like all those scifi books predicted. All that dire-as shit preppers went on about was basically the only way they figured they could get women to worship them. You’ll come running when you need a man to REALLY protect you from the looting and pillaging and raping. Bish, please. That had been happening worldwide for time immemorial ANYWAY, and people