The Apex Book of World SF

by Mahvesh Murad

  ‘I did it,’ he croaked. ‘If I walk very stiffly, hardly anything breaks off, and the glassblower put some bandages on my back. Now I’ll hold a bit longer.’

  But when he took another step I heard the splinters rattling in the hollows of his feet. I rushed to his aid and took the cart from him. When I lifted the blanket, I saw it held a glass fishing boat, just big enough to fit it. I looked at Splinter.

  ‘I’m finished, Look. I get sicker all the time. I wanna see if I can pull it off. I’ve got all day to row to the horizon. I wanna see if I can touch the sun when it sinks into the sea tonight.’

  We looked at each other for a long time. I kept trying to say something, don’t know what, but my voice had given out. Finally I managed to utter a single word. It was the only time I’ve ever begged someone.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  ‘But I’m the one to say please,’ Splinter smiled. ‘I need you. To push me off.’

  What went through my mind as I pulled him in the cart, over that narrow path winding down to the beach? About a million voices in my head were telling me to turn around, yelling that it wasn’t fair and why was this happening to me? But I buried it all inside, deep down where nobody could ever reach.

  The sun wasn’t up yet and save for a lone jogger, it was quiet on the beach. Splinter showed me a video camera wrapped up in the blanket. ‘Give that to my parents. It has a message. For you, too.’

  Next I put him in the glass fishing boat and pulled him across the tide line. I was up to my waist in the water. The sea was smooth here, slick and oily, like a mirror. The boat was very well crafted, the work of an artist. Geppetto had even fitted it with glass oars.

  I held him in my arms for a long time. Then I let go, I let him go. He took the oars and started rowing, slowly and concentrated, careful not to break his back. He looked back once. The first few rays of sunshine cast a faint glow on his body, and his lips formed a single word. That word was thanks.

  I waded back to the beach and watched him disappear, saw him grow smaller, a glittering speck on a glittering ocean. Like this, I stared for hours. The beach filled with day-trippers. People squabbled over trivialities, children cried over nothing. I felt drained. Eventually I clambered back up the cliffs. When I reached our stuff, I thought I caught a few more glimpses of the boat, but it was probably just a trick of light. Still, I didn’t leave.

  I wanted to see if he’d pull it off.

  I wanted to see if he could touch the sun.

  I was detained at Faro Airport. Not because they recognized me from some description, but because the X-rays at security fell right through me. Descriptions don’t come any better than that. They questioned me in a small holding cell. I wobbled in my chair, couldn’t find a comfortable position. I was pissed off because I missed my flight, which had cost me four hundred euros last-minute. The Portuguese official was pissed off because he had a lousy job. After he’d been in contact with the Dutch police, he asked me if I knew anything about Splinter Rozenberg’s disappearance. I tried not to cry and kept my mouth shut, said I wouldn’t say a word until I’d spoken to his parents. At that he got all worked up and banged both fists on the table.

  ‘Talk to me, you glass-eyed monkey!’ he yelled in broken English.

  I flew off the handle: ‘You don’t know shit about glass.’

  ‘Did he die?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He lived.’

  They must have searched my luggage, but they didn’t find the tape or the glass cones. I’d wrapped them in something soft and hid them in a dark place; you guess where. And so I was escorted back to the Netherlands and reunited with my parents.

  A lot more happened, none of which is really relevant. What is relevant is that watching Splinter’s video message made Mr. and Mrs. Rozenberg realize that his dream had come true. Splinter told them not to be sad for him. I saw very little of it. Tears blurred my vision when I heard his voice. I thought about how I’d sat there on the beach that long afternoon, plagued by doubts whether I’d done the right thing to let him go. Whether I should have joined him. But I also remembered how the sun had finally set, the ocean a brilliant mirror of orange light. Then I’d known. You make your final journey alone.

  Afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Rozenberg came to me and asked: ‘Did he do it? Was he happy, in the end?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He touched the sun.’

  I wish there was more, that I could give you a happier ending. But there isn’t one. Who am I? My name is Look.

  Somewhere in Portugal, scanning the waves with his binoculars each night, there’s an old glassblower. And every so often, I believe, he espies a blue whale.

  First, Bite Just a Finger

  Johann Thorsson

  Johann Thorsson is a native of Iceland who spent his youth in Israel and Croatia. He writes regular features about books for Bookriot.com and his short stories have been published in both English and Icelandic.

  JULIA TRIED IT for the first time in a party uptown, a party she only went to because her friend, that friend, the one who knows all the cool people, convinced her to come. Which is how, at the unwinding of the party with the buzz wearing off and after the first stifled yawn, someone suggested everyone try this thing he had heard of.

  He, the handsome guy with the receding hairline, started them off by biting the front of his right pinky clean off. Julia laughed nervously at the neat party trick and wondered where the blood was coming from, since surely he didn’t just actually bite off part of his finger.

  “Not that again, Toussaint,” someone said, and Julia realized that in addition to the bright eyes and the receding hairline, the handsome guy who was sucking blood from the end of his right pinky was missing the tip of his left one as well. Toussaint’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he let out a deep long sigh and bent his knees a little.

  Monday and then suddenly it was Tuesday and she was calling her mother and then felt bad about herself, about a stagnant career and no baby to post photos of on the internet. Wednesday and she had lunch with that friend and they talk about Toussaint and that trick with the finger and how apparently it was a thing now. The new drug. As her friend stuck her fork into the steak she had ordered Julia noticed that her left ring finger was a stub.

  That evening she stood naked in front of the wall-to-ceiling mirror that totally tied the apartment together and she thought about the weight she recently gained and what the chances were of getting married at thirty-nine and then she was biting down on her pinky, biting hard and it hurt and the bone grated against her teeth but suddenly with a snap! it was off.

  She rolled it around on her tongue and felt a single heartbeat of pain in her finger but then her mind flushed with ecstasy and she was standing on her toes, arching her back and there was a tingle there and she sucked the blood and was reminded of something and the tingle went on and she had to finish herself, by herself.

  It was the best she felt in years, physically and emotionally, and all it cost was the little front part of a finger she didn’t even really use. She got looks at work, glances at a bandaged little finger, but they were sympathetic and she liked it and didn’t explain. The day went by a little brighter than the others and once she got home she undressed and did it again.

  Julia called in sick to work. She had decided to never do it again, that it was madness, but she felt dizzy and afraid of the shadows. By Sunday Julia was pacing around her apartment, jumping at the phone as it rang but not answering. She needed to eat but all she wanted was her own flesh and in the end she gave in, but clever: she took a knife to her smallest toe (couldn’t reach it with her teeth) and cut it off with a quick slice and then in it went.

  Euphoria.

  She could quit if she wanted to and she did, and went until Thursday evening, when the rest of the toes of the left foot, all of them, were severed and chewed and rolled around in the mouth and oh! the taste and the surge of pleasure rushing through her, seeking out all nerve endings and setting them alight wit
h joy and a numb pain that followed but was quickly forgotten.

  She could quit if she wanted to, really.

  Her friend, that friend, came over and drew the curtains back and let in a little sunlight and air.

  “Julia,” she said. “What the hell are you doing to yourself?”

  “Nothing,” Julia said. “I can quit if I want. And anyway this is your fault, you took me to that party.”

  “Julia,” she said, an unexpected actual sense of caring in her voice. “That was just a stupid boy doing a stupid thing.”

  Julia shouted at her and she left, and then she felt sorry for herself.

  She ate her left foot, then her leg up to the knee, and spent a glorious weekend basking in the joy it brought. She didn’t need it to walk; she floated through the apartment, and the phone was ringing somewhere in the background but there were just so many new avenues of joy to travel that she didn’t care. Her friends cared, and her family, but Julia told them to leave her alone, she was fine. Besides, she could quit anytime she wanted.

  She ate her back, bit by bit but it all went down and she put on a cape to cover what was missing. A superhero now, our Julia.

  Julia stood in front of a mirror and instead of seeing all the parts of herself that were missing all she saw was what was left but she stopped for a while and she tried normal food but it was bland and didn’t sit well in her bowels. She went back to work, on crutches, wearing a cape but they looked at her and she heard what they said behind her (not) back. She got in a fight with her boss and went back home. They didn’t understand, no one understood.

  She could quit if she wanted to but she didn’t want to, not really, and then her legs were.

  She smiled by herself in the darkness. But she could quit anytime she wanted.

  Just one. More. Bite.

  The Eleven Holy Numbers of the Mechanical Soul

  Natalia Theodoridou

  Natalia Theodoridou is a media and cultural studies scholar from Greece, who has lived in the US, the UK, and Indonesia for several years. Her fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Interfictions, and other places. She has received a Rhysling nomination for her poetry.

  a=38. This is the first holy number.

  STAND STILL. STILL. In the water. Barely breathing, spear in hand. One with the hand.

  A light brush against my right calf. The cold and glistening touch of human skin that is not human. Yet, it’s something. Now strike. Strike.

  Theo had been standing in the sea for hours—his bright green jacket tied high around his waist, the water up to his crotch. Daylight was running out. The fish was just under the point of his spear when he caught a glimpse of a beast walking toward him. Animalis Primus. The water was already lapping at its first knees.

  He struck, skewering the middle of the fish through and through. It was large and cumbersome—enough for a couple of days. It fought as he pulled it out of the water. He looked at it, its smooth skin, its pink, human-like flesh. These fish were the closest thing to a human being he’d seen since he crashed on Oceanus.

  Theo’s vision blurred for a moment, and he almost lost his balance. The fish kept fighting, flapping against the spear.

  It gasped for air.

  He drove his knife through its head and started wading ashore.

  Animalis Primus was taking slow, persistent steps into the water. Its stomach bottles were already starting to fill up, its feet were tangled in seaweed. Soon, it would drown.

  Theo put the fish in the net on his back and sheathed his spear to free both his hands. He would need all of his strength to get the beast back on the beach. Its hollow skeleton was light when dry, but wet, and with the sea swelling at dusk—it could take them both down.

  When he got close enough, Theo placed his hands against the hips of the advancing beast to stop its motion, then grabbed it firmly by its horizontal spine to start pushing it in the other direction. The beast moved, reluctantly at first, then faster as its second knees emerged from the water and met less resistance. Finally its feet gained traction against the sand, and soon Theo was lying on his back, panting, the fish on one side, the beast on the other, dripping on the beach and motionless. But he was losing the light. In a few moments, it would be night and he would have to find his way back in the dark.

  He struggled to his feet and stood next to the beast.

  “What were you doing, mate?” he asked it. “You would have drowned if I hadn’t caught you, you know that?”

  He knelt by the beast’s stomach and examined the bottles. They were meant to store pressurized air—now they were full of water. Theo shook his head. “We need to empty all these, dry them. It will take some time.” He looked for the tubing that was supposed to steer the animal in the opposite direction when it came in contact with water. It was nowhere to be found.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll get you fixed soon. Now let’s go home for the night, ja?”

  He threw the net and fish over his shoulder and started pushing Animalis Primus toward the fuselage.

  b=41,5. This is the second holy number.

  Every night, remember to count all the things that do not belong here. So you don’t forget. Come on, I’ll help you.

  Humans don’t belong here. Remember how you couldn’t even eat the fish at first, because they reminded you too much of people, with their sleek skin, their soft, scaleless flesh? Not any more, though, ja? I told you, you would get over it. In time.

  Animals don’t belong here, except the ones we make.

  Insects.

  Birds.

  Trees. Never knew I could miss trees so much.

  Remember how the fish gasped for air? Like I would. Like I am.

  It will be light again in a few hours. Get some sleep, friend. Get some sleep.

  The wind was strong in the morning. Theo emerged from the fuselage and tied his long grey hair with an elastic band. It was a good thing he’d tethered Animalis Primus to the craft the night before.

  He rubbed his palms together over the dying fire. There was a new sore on the back of his right hand. He would have to clean it with some saltwater later. But there were more important things to do first.

  He walked over to the compartment of the craft that he used as a storage room and pulled free some white tubing to replace the damaged beast’s water detector. He had to work fast. The days on Oceanus waited for no man.

  About six hours later, the bottles in Animalis Primus were empty and dry, a new binary step counter and water detector installed. All he had to do now was test it.

  Theo pushed the beast toward the water, its crab-like feet drawing helixes in the wet sand. He let the beast walk to the sea on its own. As soon as the detector touched the surf, Animalis Primus changed direction and walked away from the water.

  Theo clapped. “There you go, mate!” he shouted. “There you go!”

  The beast continued to walk, all clank and mechanical grace. As it passed by Theo, it stopped, as if hesitating.

  Then, the wind blew, and the beast walked away.

  Dusk again, and the winds grew stronger. Nine hours of day, nine hours of night. Life passed quickly on Oceanus.

  Theo was sitting by the fire just outside the fuselage. He dined on the rest of the fish, wrapped in seaweed. Seaweed was good for him, good source of vitamin C, invaluable after what was left of the craft’s supplies ran out a long time ago. He hated the taste, though.

  He looked at the beasts, silhouetted against the night sky and the endless shore:

  Animalis Acutus, walking sideways with its long nose pointed at the wind,

  Animalis Agrestis, the wild, moving faster than all of them combined,

  Animalis Caecus, the blind, named irrationally one night, in a bout of despair,

  Animalis Echinatus, the spiny one, the tallest,

  Animalis Elegans, the most beautiful yet, its long white wings undulating in the wind with a slight, silky whoosh,

  and Animalis Primus, now about eight years old, by a
clumsy calculation. The oldest one still alive.

  Eight years was not bad. Eight years of living here were long enough to live.

  c=39,3. This is the third holy number.

  Now listen, these beasts, they are simple Jansen mechanisms with a five-bar linkage at their core. Mechanical linkages are what brought about the Industrial Revolution, ja? I remember reading about them in my Archaic Mechanics studies.

  See, these animals are all legs, made of those electrical tubes we use to hide wires in. Each leg consists of a pair of kite-like constructions that are linked via a hip and a simple crank. Each kite is made up of a pentagon and a triangle, the apex of which is the beast’s foot. The movement is created by the relative lengths of the struts. That’s why the holy numbers are so important. They are what allow the beasts to walk. To live.

  Each beast needs at least three pairs of legs to stand by itself, each leg with its very own rotary motion. All the hips and cranks are connected via a central rod. That’s the beast’s spine.

  And then, of course, there are the wings. The wind moves the wings, and the beasts walk on their own.

  They have wings, but don’t fool yourself into thinking they can fly, ja?

  Wings are not all it takes to fly.

  In the morning, Theo was so weak he could barely use the desalination pump to get a drink of water and wash his face. He munched on seaweed, filling up on nutrients, trying to ignore the taste. After all these years, he had still not gotten used to that taste. Like eating rot right off of the ocean bed.

  The beasts were herding by the nearest sand dune today, mostly immobilized by the low wind. The sun shone overhead, grinding down Theo’s bones, the vast stretches of sand and kelp around him. The beach. His beach.