by Hugh Howey
To make matters worse, Mother was in the midst of forming an alliance with the other enclaves in the Trenton area. Now I have more people depending on my decisions than either of them did. It’s enough to call up a flash of blind, impotent rage at those two dearly departed who loved me so much.
I lost them both this year. Mother was attacked in the fields by a pair of skitterers eight months ago. Father followed two months later from a wasting illness that plagued him for months prior. And I was left in their wadi, not yet sixteen and without the support I’d come to depend on as much as the enclave now depended on me.
I thought on it for a time and finally told Solomon to put together a hunting party, but not to find us meat. I was sending them down into the city. Mother and father always talked about the days before the xenofauna, when people instead of monsters lived in the cities. They had the most novel idea of homes that had their own, individual water supply.
It had to come from somewhere and I knew that someone had to dig for that water without bore-wurms. If the means still existed, it had to be somewhere in the city.
Until then, I also asked Solomon to contact the other enclaves. Maybe we would have good fortune and someone would be willing to lend us bore-wurms, or at least keep ours from dying.
Once Solomon was gone, I went on my own way to round up every shovel in the enclave, just in case. If he was right and the xenofauna were dying, I wasn’t the only one that would be losing something I had come to depend on. Next year would probably be a year without bore-wurms. And we would have to live without them.
Landon Porter
is a proud geek who enjoys comic books, roleplaying, and gaming. He knows a d20 from 2d10, the Konami Code and why Pi Day is March 14. A fan of all things Fantasy and Sci-Fi, he’s been writing about them on the web since 2002 and has been telling stories since before he could write.
His best known works are the superhero web fiction series, The Descendants and the dungeonpunk fantasy Rune Breaker. An avid fan of Fantasy, Science Fiction, Roleplaying Games and Superhero comics, his works tend to mix and blend tropes from each into new and original creations.
His writing philosophy heavily emphasizes themes of family, hope and redemption, rejecting the idea that works must be bleak and dark to be realistic and meaningful.
Landon Porter’s Website
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Science Fiction
Welcome Home Mrs. Lee
Kathy Molyneaux
I had the dream job — facial artist to the stars, or so my business card told me. In the early days, my clients flirted outrageously. “Oh Doctor,” they’d coo, “you’re the Michelangelo of our century.” I went to parties, movie premieres and inaugural dinners, but eventually, all that changed. My clients still cooed, but they’d say things like “Doctor, it’s a shame you never got married and had kids.” That just echoed what my mother had been saying for decades. As if I had the time. As if there was any man brave enough to propose.
That was all before Mrs. Mabel Lee walked into my clinic. Mabel was a forty-nine-year old elementary school teacher. She’d bought a single ticket for the California lottery and had won two hundred and fifty million dollars. She dithered for months and then made this appointment. “My husband told me I looked great,” she said hesitantly.
“Why come then?” Most of my clients changed their faces to satisfy a spouse or lover. Mabel was the first to admit to having a deeper relationship.
Mabel shrugged. “My husband’s in the Air Force. He’s overseas right now.” A lover then, but Mabel wasn’t finished. “That means I need to take care of the car, the house, everything. When a woman reaches a certain age, she becomes invisible.”
“You’re having plastic surgery to get better service?”
“It sounds stupid, but yes, I’m doing this for myself and I guess for my kids. My daughter keeps telling me how grey my hair is getting. Teenagers, you know.” Mabel rolled her eyes.
I didn’t know, but pretended to. We discussed the procedure and I showed her pictures of some newly-restored starlets. She stared at me, her eyes full of pity, and asked, “Why haven’t you done this yourself?” Then she blushed, handed me an envelope of photos and a cheek swab and left me to work my magic.
It was impossible to choose a single photo to use as a template for the procedure. Mabel looked radiant in all of them. There were photos from her wedding and from her mother’s eightieth birthday. There was First Communion with her daughter, Zoe. There were pool parties with her son, Andrew.
In short, Mabel’s life was everything mine had never been. Her family loved her, her mother loved her. I was fascinated. I memorized Mabel’s voice, her mannerisms, even learned about her job. And I built her the perfect template — a composite of images taken fifteen to twenty years ago. My 3D printers assembled a collagen mold from the template. Cells from her cheek swab colonized the mold and after six months of incubation, they formed her new skin. The only thing left to do was schedule the grafting procedure.
The day arrived, the last work day before my usual summer break. I told my staff to take an early holiday. I held Mabel’s hand until the anesthesia took hold. Then I stretched myself on a gurney next to my client and strapped on a mask. I had just enough time to hit the initiate key on the grafting servos, the servos that would sand down my face and body and apply that beautiful new skin. I woke five hours later and raised my hand to Mabel’s cheek, my cheek, and marveled at how right it felt. Mabel was still sleeping next to me, a smile on her lips and smile lines around her eyes.
I hesitated. Could I wear her face for a day then return it? No. This could be my only chance at a normal life, my only chance to be the daughter my mother wanted. I cranked up the flow rate and watched Mabel’s breathing still. I reprogrammed the servos to sand down the body and washed the bloody slurry into the medical waste. Then I dressed myself in Mabel’s clothes, took her purse from the locker and walked out of the clinic into my new life.
Four hours later, I pulled into my driveway. The sun gleamed off my home’s stucco walls. Hanging baskets of fuschia shaded my porch. I walked to my front door, stepped inside and called. “Hello. I’m home.” My voice echoed in the cool, dim hallway.
My son appeared first, stepping out of the living room with a game controller in his hand. His brown eyes widened, then he looked down and mumbled, “Hi Mom.” Then my daughter was there with a million-watt smile on her freckled face. “Oh Mom!” she gasped. “It’s wonderful!”
Andrew scowled at his sister. “She looked better before.”
“You’re such a boy.” She dragged out the oy sound. “You just don’t get it.” Then she hugged me and said, “I’m so proud of you. Did it hurt?” She smelled like suntan lotion and Clearasil. Her braces made her smile seem even brighter. Then she laughed a little, hugged me tighter and whispered in my ear, “Can I get my boobs done next?”
“I don’t see why not?” I murmured.
Zoe stiffened and pulled back. “Ummm. That was a joke.”
I tried to recover my maternal credibility by stuttering, “Maybe when you’re older?” but Zoe’s smile was gone, her lips quivered and she fled.
Andrew watched Zoe streak out of the hall. Then he shrugged and went back into the living room.
I wandered the house until I found my bedroom. Safely there, I told myself I would overcome this setback. I never did. Over the next three months, I mastered being a teacher, I mastered being the wife of an overseas officer, I mastered being Andrew’s mom but I never mastered my fifteen-year-old daughter. Inevitably, Zoe told me that I wasn’t her mother. Inevitably, she called the police. Their DNA test strips confirmed my mixed identity, and now I am awaiting trial at the La Jolla detention center. My only regret is that my mother was never able to meet her grandchildren. She would have loved seeing Zoe smile.
Kathy Molyneaux
has an academic publication record, but her foray into fiction is new. She has
two published short stories, Origins 1995and God II. Origins was published in Conviction: Anthology of the Con (Volume 2) and God IIin the charity anthology Something for the Journey.
Kathy Molyneaux’s Website
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Dystopian — Science Fiction
My Last Moment
Drew Avera
I looked up to see the towers disappear in the clouds. If Heaven were as close as the foggy haze above then perhaps I would feel safer, but like most things unseen I could not grasp it. My heart beat swiftly with the drumming pattern of fear deep in my body. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched, which added to my anguish. If only I could escape my fate and wake up to find myself tucked under the warm blankets of my childhood bed.
Those days had long since retired from my life. At fifty-four years of age I was one of the oldest in my community. My long life invited me to be the first to be called for this forfeiture of freedom. I suppose I should be grateful for my years, but the burden of life is not what you gain; it’s what you’ve lost. Parents, wife, children, siblings, friends… I had them once long ago. Now all I have is a fading memory and anger nourishing my resolve.
A mechanical sound above alerted me to a camera coming into focus. I could almost see the set of eyes behind it with my imagination. It was probably some cold-hearted resemblance of a human assessing the threat to their security inside. Unbeknownst to them, I was more than a threat.
I stepped forward, the heavy burden of my boots making it hard to ascend the steps. One by one I climbed, keeping my eyes on the guards ahead, their weapons a sign of neutrality, for now. My breath hastened as I closed in on the doors.
Did they suspect me? Would I cross the threshold alive? I wondered to myself.
Only seven steps separated me from the guarded entrance. Seven breaths, seven blinks, seven beats of my fluttering heart until I crossed over. I counted them to myself slowly.
One, neither guard looked in my direction.
Two, I could smell the cold air from inside passing under the door.
Three, I could see the bustling of people’s shadows behind the tinted glass.
Four, I reached for the device under my coat.
Five, the metal was warm to the touch from where it rested against my body.
Six, movement ahead as one of the guards shifted their bodyweight.
Seven, the doors opened automatically and allowed me to pass through. It was easier than I thought possible.
Chilliness overtook my body, all the way to my core. My victims had faces, personalities, smiles. I wanted to betray my people, betray the memory of my family at that moment. I wanted to betray myself, to belong in such a place as this.
Synthec was a global entity. They controlled the world through medical advances. They cured diseases, even the ones they created. If history were not blind, then it would see the trail of bodies left in the wake of Synthec’s success. If history were not blind, then I would not be painted the villain in this story.
I stood in the middle of a vast lobby and for the first time in three years I saw my reflection. The lines in my face showed the worry and regret of living. My pale blue eyes hid my pain, but did not hide it from myself. I was dressed like a businessman, but I felt like a prisoner.
No more!I screamed in my mind. I could not handle the duality of my plight. I was not one of them! I was against them! I would end the charade now.
I gripped the device in my palm and nestled my thumb against the activation switch. One more deep breath before I unleashed hell on this place. I inhaled until my lungs were close to exploding and with a gentle exhale I pressed the switch.
A rumbling generated beneath me and I fought to keep my footing as the floor buckled beneath me. Structural security was no more as I looked upwards one last time and watched the world fall on top of me. I did not believe in Heaven during my last moment on Earth, even as it crashed atop my body, crushing my bones and sending me to my bitter end. I deserved it more than anything else I had earned. I killed the enemy for taking my family away from me. My reward for living was to die with my enemies.
Drew Avera
is an active duty Navy veteran and science fiction author. Originally from Mississippi, Drew joined the Navy when he was seventeen. He now lives in Virginia with his wife and two daughters.
Drew Avera’s Website
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Fantasy — Steampunk
The Eternal Gateway: Blades
SB Jones
Xavier Ross stood on the crowded train platform. Some passengers gave him nervous glances, most avoided him all together. Only the children, who didn’t know better, would stare at the discolored scars that covered the side of his face. Even that wasn’t enough to hold their attention when an airship passed overhead, an older model with four bladed rotors above the deck of the ship. It was a style that would never be used again in favor of having the lift installed underneath.
The evolution of airship design wasn’t why he had come to Courduff. There was only one thing he was after in the capital city, two actually. A twin set of indestructible war blades enchanted by mages during a time long forgotten. Priceless was too cheap to describe their value. And he would give them to the woman who was going to kill him.
The food at the campus café had declined since the last time he ate there. “Ebonmore has let this place go,” he told the same waitress he remembered from another lifetime. She finally looked at him and noticed his scars. Decades of menial service had made each day so dull that she was ignorant to how much history she had witnessed firsthand.
“He moved away. Some small place to the south to be with family,” she said, leaving the check on his table. Turning back she added, “We close soon.”
That was her way of telling him that he should leave. He looked out the window towards the Mage Council Tower across the street. The café was always open. He remembered ordering the old man to keep it that way.
Xavier shook his head. It was stunning how lazy he had been in that other life.
The tower wasn’t where he would find the weapons that the time traveling guardian had asked him to retrieve. Ironically they were exactly where he had last seen them; on display at a museum that no one visited anymore. Without finishing his food he left the café.
Waiting for darkness to fall, Xavier kept an eye on the museum. He flicked the spent cigarette into the street. He had a new pack of them, but they were to be saved for a special occasion, a present from an old friend turned new again.
As he had suspected, the museum had been ignored. The time of mages had passed, and no one wanted to be reminded of their rule. Even Therion, the last member of the mage council and current ruler of Courduff, kept his magical abilities out of sight.
While he was slipping around to the side entrance, a wave of nostalgia passed through him. History really did repeat itself; this wasn’t the first time he had stolen from this museum. The lock yielded without a fight before he slipped inside. He found the overweight guard asleep at his desk. The thought crossed his mind to make it permanent, but the greasy wrapper in the trash told him the guard wasn’t going to be waking anytime soon — Ebonmore’s café again. Xavier made a mental note to have a private talk with the old man. He would be in Aldervale soon enough.
“War blades, recovered from a dig site in Canyamar, unbreakable,” Xavier read the placard out loud as he examined the blades on display. The grips and hilts were nearly destroyed with age. Whoever had crafted them had only enchanted the blades, but he knew a guy that owed him a favor that could repair them. The magical runes etched into the blades reflected the dim light giving them a soft glow.
“How many souls have you reaped?” he asked, trying to imagine their path through history. “I bet you’re thirsty for battle.” He looked at his scarred hand covered in thick skin that grew stiff each morning. He wondered which one of the two blades was th
e one she had used to destroy him. “I almost feel sorry for them,” he said, placing the glass cutter onto the display. When he released the tension pin, the tiny gears guided the scoring edge across the display followed by a hiss of compressed gas. The chilled glass popped free. “She kills so many. If they knew, they would charge me with a war crime for giving them to her.”
He placed the ancient blades inside a case. He had a few weeks before he had to deliver them to her, the woman born a thousand years ago who didn’t need an airship to fly.
SB Jones
has been self published since 2011, focusing on steampunk, fantasy and time travel novels. He regularly attends the DefCon hacker convention in Las Vegas, spent eight years working for Dell Inc. and spends his free time exploring online worlds. He is the author of The Eternal Gateway trilogy and War of Antiquities series.
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Literary Fiction
Words
Bob Summer
My tears taste the same as always. They should taste different. Salt should be kept for tears of despair.
People wonder where the likes of me go during the day. I’ve stood inside the shop doorway with my bag between my feet and heard them talk. “You don’t see them as often during the day as you do at night, do you?” Sometimes they muse how I might live in a smart house out in the suburbs and I only come begging when the sun shines. “They like the street life. They choose to live it.”
