by Rich Horton
Finally the visitor made its music, indicating that I should come up the stairs, into its space, and stand beside it. My minder indicated that this was an insincere, merely formal invitation, so I remained still. The minder had been misinformed, however, for the visitor shortly spoke again, indicating in three of its threads that I should get up on the Wall immediately.
I unlocked my joints and staggered up the last stairs, nervously taking my place within reach of the loathsome creature, if creature it is of That which is Above, which I doubt. At that distance I could hear the shifting of those hideous scales, a low, syncopated whispering. It nauseated me, despite my training in meditation and bodily control. I tried to distract myself with humor, asking myself the question “Surely this is not as bad as dining with your first mother-in-law?” For the first time in my adult life, the answer could not be negative. This experience made that one pale by comparison.
I concentrated on the view, for the visitor said nothing. What lay before my eyes was the valley of the Fish River and the hillside beyond, hundreds of acres of forest. Nestled into a dell on the side of that hill was a small farm, with fields of Indian corn growing tall. Why they grew corn on these machine-run farms had never been clear. Perhaps they fed it to animals in other zoos.
I did not see the forest as forest, though, or the field as field. I saw a world denied to me. I would never walk in that forest, or see the valley beyond the far ridge, or any other part of the world, unless it was the confines of another human enclave. I saw the whole vast universe that was outside the Morgantown Sector, which meant outside the prison the New People had made for me. Even the name “Sector” had become a lie, for the Knoxville, Huntington, and Lexington sectors of the Westylvania Enclave had long since been detached, then shrunken, and finally shut down. My sector, all that remained of the Enclave, had been reduced to nine thousand square kilometers.
I saw not the forest, but the loss of my true last name, that I had been forbidden to speak or write ever again. The New People had found, in Confucius, the concept of the Rectification of Names, and had imposed this virtuous program on us all. As I made fancy leather bindings for private editions of art books, I became Bookbinder.
I saw the loss of meaning in that trade, as the only bindings I made were for the official histories that each community had begun keeping. Modern Domesday Books, written for descendants that might, someday, care about the last generation of humankind that had once lived outside the Walls. The real human economy, and real jobs, had ceased to be. We were provided almost all we asked for, except military weapons. They even allowed us dueling pistols and the rapier style of swords. With everything provided, our employments had been reduced to mere hobbies.
Instead of the cornfield, I saw the loss of culture. There were no rows in that field, because their machines did not use tractors that needed to drive through them. The stalks were closely spaced in hexagonal distribution, the seeds shot into the ground by a hovering planter, and thus there was no angle at which the eye could see through a grown field. That morning the field said to me, I am not a human field. I am not for you. I am new.
My clothes illustrated the loss of culture. I had been raised a Congregationalist, in Little Falls, New York. I wore American suits and ties at work, and jeans and Pendleton shirts at home, until the New People decided that the ideal attire for human beings must be the robes and burnoose of Persia in the sixteenth century. My Amy Vanderbilt manners have been replaced with the extreme formalism of second century Shansi, with touches of fourteenth century Japan, and with completely invented New People additions thrown in. I have learned court poses, and formal mudras, and my native English has been replaced with the Sanskrit the New People decided was our best language. I am proficient in sign-speech; not because I, or a relative, needed it, but because they don’t care to listen to our gabble; and so we must sign whenever more than three of us are together.
My religion had been replaced with The Wisdom, which seemed cobbled from Islam, Zoroastrianism, and Buddhism.
For years I had thought of myself as a highly cultured person, an artist and an intellectual. As each challenge, each adaptation had been presented by the planet’s new owners, I had risen to meet it, to exceed the standards required of us. I had been willing to commit murder, and commit it that very day, as part of my coping, my rising to meet a difficult and awkward transition. Standing on that Wall, that day, I lost my persona. Lost my reinvented, carefully maintained, safe, obliging self. I looked across the Fish with the eyes of a caged animal.
I fought down the urge to push the visitor off the Wall, but only because I knew the attempt would be futile. Human reflexes are not fast enough to touch them, much less knock one over, and their bodies far too easily repair themselves.
Perhaps it sensed some part of my feelings, for it chose that moment to gesture in the direction of the cornfield and utter two full minutes of discordant four-theme lyrics. I was surprised to find myself following the gist of the speech, even though I found the meaning too bizarre and too awful for words. Still, I let the minder repeat the contents, while the visitor took a brief stroll down the battlements, awaiting my reply.
There may have been artistry in the monster’s presentation, but I will not dignify it with a repetition. The essence was twisted and brutal.
It wondered if I was knowledgeable on the ancient religions which practiced the annual sacrifice of the Corn God Ritual.
Surely, it observed, an artist such as myself must deeply respect the great power of Archetypes.
It noted that my lover, my Isabel, was distantly, and morganatically, related to royalty.
It wished me to know that of all the versions of human sacrifice it had learned of from our history, the Saturnalia and Corn God sacrifices seemed the most noble, the most pleasing, and the most interesting.
The New People had decided to revive the practice, and study its effects.
Did I not expect better crops as a result?
Would I not be proud to know that she had been given to the gods in such an artistic way? Or would sadness prevail?
They hoped, it assured me, that scientific and philosophical study of the sacrifice and its outcome would allow them to perfect human civilization; would clarify for them our ideal culture; would help them bring us to our just and rightful reward.
“These sacrifices,” I asked, “are held in midwinter, or the spring, were they not? Some months from now, yes?”
Indeed they were, but she would be taken and prepared now, and sacrificed later.
My response was not in complex sentences. “Sadness would prevail,” I said. “You are vile to do this. You are vile even to think of it.”
She had been taken while we stood on that Wall, was already gone when I returned, alone.
The neighbors came, saying the inadequate things they could think to say, doing the little things that got me through the first week. I did not tell them, then, that the New People had taken her before I could find the courage to put her beyond their reach. I had planned to kill Isabel to spare her from whatever the next step was, though I never imagined something like this; and that peaceful, private death had been forestalled. I did not need to tell them that Isabel had once been delightful, proud, and generous—that she had only turned cranky and peevish lately, adapting poorly to a completely altered world. We all knew it.
I worked in the bindery, because it is what I do, though there is no real sense in it. The New People had done to me what they do: taking away the most beloved, and claiming it to be for our own good. There is even less sense in that.
I worked in the bindery, and mulled over my despair. I mulled it over in my native language, in English, which my visitor found adequate for addressing a chipmunk. I found myself rusty in it, after all these years thinking in Sanskrit. Mostly, I closed escape hatches. I decided not to indulge myself in going mad; not to commit suicide; nor to make them kill me by excessive resistance; not to attempt a futile escape over the Wall,
or an act of senseless violence. I decided not to escape into mysticism, and not to convince myself that some god would help after failing so miserably up to this point, may all that is Above get itself in fucking gear.
I decided that only one act of defiance might be of any use at all. I wrote this tale, and am inserting it into this binding and all my other bindings, on the backing papers and in a microchip, with the hope that the recording of what the New People have done will someday bring their acts back upon them.
Perhaps this will protect some other planet from their gentle ministrations. I am not, however, altruistic in this act. I am hoping that with them, soon—as with me, now—sadness will prevail.
Biographies
Derek Künsken has built genetically-engineered viruses; worked with street children in Latin America; served as a Canadian diplomat; and most importantly, teaches his ten-year-old son about super-heroes and science. Derek writes science fiction, fantasy and horror in Gatineau, Canada, and can be found at @derekkunsken and derekkunsken.com and blogging at blackgate.com. “Schools of Clay” grew from musings about how a species’ life cycle might evolve to incorporate time travel and how selection pressures would act upon that cycle.
Eleanor Arnason has published six novels and something like fifty short stories. Hidden Folk, a collection of her fantasies based on Icelandic literature and folklore, came out at the end of 2014 from Many Planets Press. Her previous book, Big Mama Stories, came out in 2013 from Aqueduct Press, and collection of her hwarhath science fiction stories will come out from Aqueduct in 2015 or 2016. She has won the Tiptree and Spectrum Awards and been a finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, Sturgeon and Sidewise Awards.
Hannu Rajaniemi, Ph.D. is author of The Quantum Thief, The Fractal Prince, and The Causal Angel. He is also a cofounder of Helix Nanotechnologies and a graduate of Singularity University. He currently divides his time between the UK and San Francisco.
K.J. Parker is the author of the best-selling Engineer trilogy (Devices and Desires, Evil for Evil, The Escapement) as well as the previous Fencer (The Colours in the Steel, The Belly of the Bow, The Proof House) and Scavenger (Shadow, Pattern, Memory) trilogies, and has twice won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novella.
Sandra McDonald’s first collection of fiction, Diana Comet and Other Improbable Stories, was a Booklist Editor’s Choice for Young Readers, an American Library Association Over the Rainbow Book, and winner of a Lambda Literary Award. She writes adult and young adult books with gay, transgender and asexual characters, including the collection Drag Queen Astronaut, the thriller City of Soldiers (as Sam Burke) and the award-winning Fisher Key Adventures (as Sam Cameron). Her short fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, The Dark, Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and more. She teaches writing in Florida and loves visiting grand old hotels. Visit her at www.sandramcdonald.com and @sandramcdonald.
Richard Parks has been writing and publishing sf/f/ longer than he cares to remember. His work has appeared in Asimov’s SF, Realms of Fantasy, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and several Year’s Bests. The third book in his Yamada Monogatari series, The War God’s Son, is due out in late 2015 from Prime Books. He blogs at “Den of Ego and Iniquity Annex #3”, also known as www.richard-parks.com
Sofia Samatar is the author of the novel A Stranger in Olondria, winner of the Crawford Award, the British Fantasy Award, and the World Fantasy Award for Best Novel. She also received the 2014 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. She co-edits the online journal Interfictions and lives in California.
Yoon Ha Lee’s collection Conservation of Shadows came out in 2013 from Prime Books. His fiction has also appeared in Tor.com, Lightspeed, Clarkesworld, and F&SF. He lives with his family in Louisiana and has not yet been eaten by gators.
Robert Reed is the author of numerous SF works and a few hard-to-categorize ventures. His latest novel is a trilogy in one volume: The Memory of Sky, published by Prime Books, is set in Reed’s best known creation, the universe of Marrow and the Great Ship. In 2007, Reed won a Hugo for his novella, “A Billion Eves.” He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska with his wife and daughter.
Damien Ober is the author of the historical science-fiction novel, Doctor Benjamin Franklin’s Dream America (Equus Press). His work has appeared in The Rumpus, NOON, Port.man.teau, VLAK, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet and B O D Y Literature. He was nominated for a 2012 Pushcart Prize and had a screenplay selected for the 2013 Black List.
Ken Liu (kenliu.name) is an author and translator of speculative fiction, as well as a lawyer and programmer. A winner of the Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy Awards, he has been published in F&SF, Asimov’s, Analog, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Strange Horizons, among other places. He lives with his family near Boston, Massachusetts. Ken’s debut novel, The Grace of Kings, the first in a silkpunk epic fantasy series, was published by Saga Press, Simon & Schuster’s new genre fiction imprint, in April 2015. Saga will also publish a collection of his short stories later in the year.
Alaya Dawn Johnson is the author of six novels for adults and young adults. Her novel The Summer Prince was longlisted for the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature. Her most recent, Love Is the Drug, was nominated for the Norton Award. Her short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies, including Asimov’s, F&SF, Interzone, Subterranean, Zombies vs. Unicorns, and Welcome to Bordertown. She has won a Cybil’s award and been nominated for the Indies Choice Award, Nebula Award, Norton Award, and Locus Award.
John Grant has won the Hugo (twice), the World Fantasy Award and various others for nonfiction like The Encyclopedia of Fantasy (with John Clute) and The Chesley Awards (with Elizabeth Humphrey and Pamela D. Scoville). His most recent nonfiction books are A Comprehensive Encyclopedia of Film Noir and, for young adults, Debunk It!: How to Stay Sane in a World of Misinformation; scheduled for Fall 2015 is Spooky Science. His second story collection, Tell No Lies, was published at the end of 2014. He writes the website Noirish (noirencyclopedia.wordpress.com/).
Charlie Jane Anders is the author of All the Birds in the Sky, a novel coming in early 2016 from Tor Books. She is the editor in chief of io9.com and the organizer of the Writers With Drinks reading series. Her stories have appeared in Asimov’s, F&SF, Tor.com, Lightspeed, Tin House, ZYZZYVA, and several anthologies. Her novelette “Six Months, Three Days” won a Hugo award.
Kathleen Jennings is a writer and illustrator from Brisbane, Australia. Her short stories and comics have appeared in anthologies from Candlewick Press, FableCroft Publishing and Ticonderoga Press, as well as in Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine. Some of Kathleen’s thoughts (but mostly her art) can be found at: tanaudel.wordpress.com.
James Patrick Kelly has won the Hugo, Nebula and Locus awards; his fiction has been translated into twenty-two languages. He writes a column on the internet for Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine and is on the faculty of the Stonecoast Creative Writing MFA Program at the University of Southern Maine.
Theodora Goss’ publications include the short story collection In the Forest of Forgetting (2006); Interfictions (2007), a short story anthology coedited with Delia Sherman; Voices from Fairyland (2008), a poetry anthology with critical essays; The Thorn and the Blossom (2012), a novella in a two-sided accordion format; and the poetry collection Songs for Ophelia (2014). Her work has been translated into ten languages. She has been a finalist for the Nebula, Crawford, Locus, Seiun, and Mythopoeic Awards, and on the Tiptree Award Honor List. Her short story “Singing of Mount Abora” (2007) won the World Fantasy Award.
Annalee Newitz writes about science, tech and the future. She’s the founding editor of io9, the editor-in-chief of Gizmodo, and the author of Scatter, Adapt and Remember: How Humans Will Survive a Mass Extinction. She divides her time between science nonfiction and science fiction.
Kelly Link is the author of the collections Stranger Things Happen, Magic for Beginners, Pretty Mons
ters, and Get in Trouble. Her short stories have been published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, The Best American Short Stories, and Prize Stories: The O. Henry Awards. She has received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. She and Gavin J. Grant have co-edited a number of anthologies, including multiple volumes of The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and, for young adults, Steampunk! and Monstrous Affections. She is the co-founder of Small Beer Press and co-edits the occasional zine Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet. Link was born in Miami, Florida. She currently lives with her husband and daughter in Northampton, Massachusetts.
Cory Doctorow (craphound.com) is a science fiction author, activist, journalist and blogger—the co-editor of Boing Boing (boingboing.net) and the author of the YA graphic novel In Real Life, the nonfiction business book Information Doesn’t Want to Be Free, and young adult novels like Homeland, Pirate Cinema, and Little Brother, and novels for adults like Rapture of the Nerds and Makers. He works for the Electronic Frontier Foundation and co-founded the UK Open Rights Group. Born in Toronto, Canada, he now lives in London.
Patricia Russo’s stories have been published in many places, both in print on online. Her first collection of short stories, Shiny Thing, was published by Papaveria Press.
Adam Roberts is the author of fifteen science fiction novels and many more short stories. He lives in the south east of England and works as a professor of literature at Royal Holloway University of London. His most recent novels are Bête (Gollancz, 2014) and The Thing Itself (Gollancz, 2015).
Paul Cornell is the creator of the Shadow Police novels. His four Jonathan Hamilton stories have been Hugo Award nominated and won the BSFA Award. His new novella, “Witches of Lychford” is out this year from Tor.
