The Death of All Things

by Faith Hunter

  He had not apologized. He had equivocated, pleaded, but he had not apologized. I didn’t kill him, he’d said, more than once, as though that made a difference. It was true, but only in the most technical terms.

  I was going to make it better, he’d said, and that was when she’d slashed him with the knife.

  Had she meant to kill him? It had not been the planned end of that confrontation, but she’d interpreted it as fate. As the hand of shining Rivni, judging her father’s killer. That had to be right, because if not—Oram Beravnis would receive no justice. No court in the land would convict Acanthus Moreva of irresponsibility, of talking his friend into a terrible investment as a personal favor.

  “I will not let him live,” she said finally, one hand clenched in her robes.

  “And you would let the world die?”

  “Bring someone else back,” she snapped. “Anyone. I don’t care who. Why not save my father, if someone has to return?”

  “It is not the way.”

  She swung a hand toward his face, not thinking, aiming for a slap—this is Rivni, not truly dead Moreva—

  She froze, her breathing harsh in her ears.

  Slowly, he reached out and brushed a finger across her cheek, eyeing the collected moisture with bemusement.

  Idenna was no less surprised. She was not a crier.

  “Would he want the world to die for his sake?” Rivni asked.

  “Don’t you dare—”

  “These are threads mortals cannot touch.” He laid a hand on the red stitching across his chest.

  “Moreva deserves no resurrection.”

  “It’s not about deserving. Moreva needs to live because perhaps in five generations a daughter of his bloodline will play a vital role in saving a nation far away. Perhaps he needs to live because he invents something crucial to humanity’s survival three hundred years from now. Or perhaps he needs to live in order to die in another way, at a later date. He is an infinitesimally small part of a larger pattern, like each one of you, and it cannot be broken. The world will rip itself apart trying to repair things.”

  It ripped me apart first, Idenna almost said. Ripped me apart and remade me into what I was supposed to be, then did it again and expects me to accept it with a smile.

  “I cannot force you into this,” Rivni said. He gestured toward the ceiling reliefs, one hand trailing through the candle flames. He did not appear to mind. “But you must understand.”

  “You want me to sacrifice the only thing I ever did of my own accord.” It was, it had been. She had thought over and over, trying to find something else, and gods, was that what her life had amounted to?

  “I want you,” he said, “to save everything.”

  Idenna sat down on the altar stairs, trying to pass it off as a controlled movement. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes.” He did not elaborate, nor remind her of the stakes.

  She looked at him for a moment, seeing not dead Moreva but Rivni, ancient and unfathomable. “Do you know what I decide?”

  “No,” he said. “My sight ended when you killed Acanthus Moreva.”

  “Then you don’t know what will happen—”

  He glanced over his shoulder, at the blue glass windows along the chapel wall. The message was clear enough.

  * * *

  On the way home, Idenna did not stop at Arden Vail’s; she did not tarry on the foggy streets. A light snow was beginning to fall, swirling around the glowing gaslamps in miniature clouds. A peaceful winter scene.

  When she returned, she put the kettle on the hob to boil, then thought the better of it.

  She wasn’t in the mood for tea anyway.

  The halls of her house seemed emptier than normal, the wood paneling oppressive rather than cozy. Idenna paced around each room several times, trying to find the most comfortable spot, like Palka circling on the bed.

  Palka herself was nowhere to be found. No doubt she had gone to see the neighbor woman, the housewife with the nice dried anchovies.

  Idenna finally found herself in her father’s study, regarding the bookshelves stacked precariously along the walls. He’d always loved reading; when she was small, he’d read her a chapter of a book every night. So many of those books had been gifts from Moreva, a personal inscription in each one. He and her father had met on the boat to Irdall; they had been inseparable from that point on.

  The world is dying.

  She heard the floorboards creak behind her and whirled around, expecting dead Moreva, expecting Rivni.

  Her father stood in the doorway.

  Idenna’s breath rushed out in a hiss.

  “You’re gone,” she said. “You were stitched down.”

  “Things are changing,” he said. “There is a new breeze through the world. Do you feel it?”

  “Rivni. This is one of your tricks.” She wasn’t sure if the knot in her chest was compelling her toward laughter or tears.

  He smiled. It was too wide, unsettling. “Rivni has no power anymore.” He walked past her, perusing the bookshelves. The hole in the side of his head was clean and empty. “How many of those would you say we read?”

  “Almost all of them.” She took a breath. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  He tilted his head to one side, frowning. “Do you not want me around, viyane?”

  “It’s not you,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Not really.”

  “No,” he agreed. He held up a hand and studied it in the gaslight, veins standing out from the skin. “But it’s better than nothing.”

  “It’s not!” The words burst from her. This was a mockery, a false life; the Strictures told that nothing could truly bring back the dead, not all the way. To see him in this state—

  “Do you remember?” he asked. “We used to have dinner on Aildays, you and Acanthus and I, and he’d bring you candied walnuts and ask you about your schooling—”

  “It’s his fault you’re gone!”

  “You blame him because you cannot blame me,” he said. He glanced away, ran a finger along the spine of his copy of the Strictures. “I understand. I am sorry, viyane.”

  Idenna swiped a hand across her eyes. “I killed Moreva so you could rest!”

  “No rest,” he said. “Not anymore.”

  She turned on her heel and ran, out the door, onto the street, toward the temple. His words followed her—no rest, no rest, no rest…

  It’s not going to fix itself.

  * * *

  The temple courtyard was deserted, cloaked in the hush of newly fallen snow. Idenna shivered. She hadn’t stopped to grab her overcoat.

  She had always been quiet, courteous, reserved. She abandoned that habit now.

  “Rivni!” she shouted into the snowstorm. “Where are you?”

  There was no reply.

  “Rivni!”

  You did this, she almost added, but—well.

  Idenna sank to her knees, shaking, and closed her eyes.

  “Do you have an answer?” dead Moreva’s voice came from behind her.

  She stood up, gathering herself, and looked him in the eye. “I want to fix this.”

  “Then break the stitching,” he said, gesturing to his chest. The slash of red thread stood out in sharp relief against his pale skin.

  Idenna reached into her skirt pocket for her penknife. A small, delicate thing compared to the instrument of Moreva’s demise, but it would do.

  “What will happen?” she asked, gripping the knife in her hand. “After.”

  “We will unite,” he said. “Gradually, your influence will increase, and mine will…wane.”

  Something in his tone made her pause. “It’s a sort of death for you, isn’t it?”

  “In a way,” he said. “But I have been Death a long time.”

  “And the rest of it—the dead, the stitchings—it goes back to the way it was?”

  “It does.” He spread his arms, inviting her in. “It is time.”

  Idenna looked down at the en
ameled handle of her penknife. A gift from her father. He’d said it had belonged to the mother she’d never known.

  She tightened her grasp on the handle and slashed, slicing through the red thread, opening the gash across Moreva’s chest.

  The world roared, or perhaps it was only the snowstorm whipping up again; everything went dark and cold and empty.

  Idenna took a breath.

  Then another.

  It was done, she could tell.

  It was done.

  Slowly, the darkness around her seemed to warm; spots of light appeared in her vision, coalescing into bunches that spread out in tangles as far as she could see. She understood them, those people, each and every one, their wishes and dreams and fears and their appointed time, and oh, her own vengeance seemed small and unimportant and hugely essential all at once—

  It had been part of the pattern after all. Rivni was right; it was time.

  Welcome, a voice said within her head. It wasn’t like dead Moreva’s voice, but there was enough similarity in the intonation for Idenna to recognize it.

  One of the spots of light danced up, just out of reach. She recognized that, too.

  She almost pushed the emotion aside, but then thought the better of it. How long had it been since she had truly let herself feel something?

  “Rest well,” she murmured.

  Come, Rivni-herself said. We have work to do.

  The End

  Jason M. Hough

  You tried to save me, Emily, and I love you for it.

  We were walking along that path that winds down to the river, and you said you’re always amazed how the sounds of the city fade away there below the old bridge. A place where we could get some solitude. “If our project is a success,” I say, “peace and quiet is going to become a rare commodity for us.”

  Then there was a noise above, and you tugged at me, and then…nothing.

  I wouldn’t even call it a fade to black. It was as if even colors ceased to exist. No sound, no smells, no anything. I died.

  Death is here. The Angel of Death. Flowing, tattered black robes that ripple as if underwater. The hooded head with only the barest hint of a skeletal something hidden in the shadows. One hand and arm, just bones, protrude from the sleeve, the fingers coiled loosely around the shaft of a sort of comically oversized scythe. Basically it looks like something off an Iron Maiden album cover, as if this is all a manifestation wrought from my own head. Maybe that’s what the afterlife is: whatever you imagined it would be, made real. This thought is somehow more terrifying than the figure sitting across from me.

  Death doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to explain, so I take a minute to let the terror run its course. It does so surprisingly fast, replaced by something worse: despair. Sadness. I’m overcome with the simple truth that I’ll never get to know if our experiment worked.

  Death and I are on top of a low hill. There’s a craggy rock with a murder of crows all perched atop it, squabbling at one another and dripping the occasional white shit. One flaps its wings, perhaps nervous under my gaze. It hops to regain its balance and they all jostle around for a bit and then settle back down.

  There’s an ancient tree that looks like it’s been dead as long as it had been alive. Just gray smooth bark vaulting up into a crooked mess of spiny branches. No leaves, but plenty of spiders. They crawl along the branches like ants, and their webs are everywhere, shifting despite the total lack of breeze with that same languid motion that waggles Death’s robes.

  “What,” I begin, but there’s a crack in my voice and I stop to swallow. “What happens now?”

  This earns no reaction from Death. The immortal is not impressed.

  Beyond the hill are more hills. The ground is as bleak as the First World War’s western front, just mud and the occasional dead twig poking up. Here and there another craggy stone propping up another murder of crows.

  Fine by me. The longer I can sit here, the more I can get my thoughts in order. I’m not thirsty or hungry, not in any pain. I feel my skull, wondering if my demise was due to some falling chunk of the old stone bridge, or perhaps I was the landing pad for the year’s first jumper. If that was the case, the damage has been repaired here in the middling afterlife.

  My knowledge of Death with a capital D is minimal. I recall something about the river Styx, but I see no river here. Death is supposed to ferry me to the afterlife. Or maybe I do the rowing and Death just makes sure I go in the right direction.

  The sky is pure dull gray. Against it, more goddamn crows circle and swoop.

  The continued silence fills me with a sudden irrational anger. “Say something, for fuck’s sake. Whatever this is, just…get it over with.”

  “Jacob Oliver Crydon,” Death says, “you are ready to cross over?”

  His voice is like two smooth stones being rubbed together in your hand. A soft scraping that shouldn’t form coherent syllables but somehow does. It unnerves the hell out of me. My whole body trembles with a sudden chill, cooling even my hot ears, and for a time I’m compelled to silence.

  In a weird way that answers his question.

  Death rises to his full impressive height. Ten feet tall at least. His bone fingers stretch and then curl again around the scythe. With that he turns and begins to walk down the hill. There is a river below, now. It wasn’t there a minute ago. I see a small decrepit wooden boat and a hurricane lantern hanging from a hook on the bow.

  I feel…a sudden urge to be defiant. One last little rebellion. So I remain firmly seated and watch him go. Part of me expects to lose control over my own free will, to be compelled to obedience. Another part thinks this is a test, that Death will turn and swing his scythe and that will be that.

  Neither of these things happens.

  Halfway down the slope the entity turns and stares at me. Really stares, eyes flaring like embers in the shadows of his hood. This moment drags on for almost a full minute before, as if with great reluctance, he takes a step back up the hill. Then another. Soon he’s back to where he started, his gaze never leaving me.

  His teeth clack together once. A horrible sound. He lifts his chin toward me. “I have guided billions to their final, eternal existence. I have witnessed and suffered every imaginable reaction to my appearance and all it entails. Fear, mostly. Sadness. Remorse. Those who plead at my feet and even those who worship there. Countless examples of all.” He rushes forward with unnatural speed, in an instant he is at arm’s length, filling my view. I can see little glowing universes in the deepest shadows of his eye sockets. Black scarab beetles by the thousands crawl around on the inside of his hooded robe. My nostrils fill with death and rot and ash. Death says, “But never this, Jacob Oliver Crydon. Never has any mortal soul simply remained. They always follow. Always. Explain yourself.”

  That’s when I know it worked. Our experiment. Our life’s labor, built on hard work and countless hours of research and coding and tooling. And, okay, a bit of industrial espionage, but goddammit who cares, it worked!

  The knowledge floods me with a sudden smug confidence, because I know what it means. Not just for reality, which is monumental, change-the-course-of-history kind of stuff, but what it means here. What it’s going to mean for the being before me.

  I inhale deeply, puffing up and meeting that horrifying gaze with something equal and opposite.

  “That’s just it,” I say. “I’m not mortal.”

  Death actually tilts his head to one side. “You are here. Where mortals come when they die.”

  “True, but you see, I’m not the only instance of me.”

  His reaction to that is a low, impatient growl.

  I go on. “I am apparently the first person in human history to become a digi. To upload.” Impossible to keep the pride out of my voice. “Going digi.” The term you came up with for our process. Ours, for the most part. We did cheat a bit, but that’s a secret we’ll take to our graves. But, I suppose I have already. Your turn will come someday, Emily. Then there’s my
digi, of course. No grave for a digi, is there? Don’t worry, he’ll know what to do. Keeping a secret can’t be harder than deleting a file, for him.

  The crows began to flutter and squawk, becoming a writhing mess of wings and beaks. Their little beady black eyes glisten as Death looms even closer.

  “Do go on,” he rasps.

  “My entire mind was captured. Data, mapped into a computer. I wasn’t sure if it worked, but this proves it has. I’m not following you because I’m not dead. Not really.”

  The ramifications of this start to settle like the placed pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The end of death as we know it. You and I had never considered that. Not in the supernatural context, anyway.

  Lost in my thoughts, I only now notice that Death is right up in my face. One skeletal hand comes up and the bony tip of the index finger touches my forehead. It’s cold as ice, that fingertip, and presses painfully hard.

  I feel something new inside me then. A softness, like a blanket has been wrapped around my thoughts. It quickly becomes a shroud. A mummification.

  I’m spun about, mentally, and I become aware of something spiraling into that maelstrom of thought. Another mind. Death’s mind.

  He’s searching for something, and I know at once it’s the truth of my words he seeks to verify, and perhaps also to understand. An immortal entity or not, Death perhaps isn’t up to speed on the nuances of neural networks and qubit arrays.

  He rummages through my mind for concept and context like a hungry teen might raid a refrigerator and I’m powerless to stop him.

  Death’s presence changes. Becomes a pressure. I find myself shrinking, as if I’m in some carnival haunted house room where the walls are closing in. Only these walls are mine. More than that, they’re me.

  I’m shunted into a corner of myself. I can still see, and hear. I can feel and smell. I have no sense of touch, though, and that’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, all of this is odd, but why touch?