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August 12, 2011

From “Amur’s Cave” by Hollister Philips-Morely

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At the height of his powers, with around 5,000 cloistered followers and perhaps 10,000 or more admirers or loose adherents to his philosophy, Amur declared that it was time to reveal the great secrets of his movement. The Amurite press duly printed and distributed pamphlets with their prophet’s revelations:

1. Heaven lies not within the skies above but in the earth below.
2. Those who lack the spirituality to ascend to heaven through earthy denial must seek it physically.
3. A connection exists between earth and heaven at the deepest part of the earth accessible by man; anyone to reach it and return will be blessed by the wisdom and riches of heaven.

These “revelations” caused mass defections from Amur’s cult, even though he displayed an item of wrought gold he claimed to have been retrieved from the earthly entrance to heaven. Not long after, his community was broken up by government troops, Amur himself disappeared in the chaos, and his gold was seized and put on display in a museum.

Bizarrely, some adventurers (inspired by the appearance of what has come to be known as Amur’s Crown) have sought the entrance to heaven that he prophesied. Some claim it is near the great Sakhalin borehole; others hold out for Voronya Cave in Abkhazia, or one of the many caves in Sarawak. But many who have sought Amur’s Cave have never returned.

Until now.

 

August 11, 2011

From “Estok and the Council” by Brann Gilmore Peiry

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“Yes, I know,” said Estok.

“You know? Then why summon me here?”

Estok cast back part of his coat to reveal a pistol.

“Y-you can’t have brought me here just to execute me!”

“You’re right,” Estok said. “I could have had you killed at any time or any place within the last 48 hours. No, I brought you here to execute you in front of witnesses. You may not be able to see them, but the entire Council and all the associated Acolytes are watching.”

 

August 10, 2011

From “Threnody for Olivia” by J. Houston Robins

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“There aren’t any good words for something like that,” said Joan. “Elegy, lament, dirge…they’re nothing but blackness without a hint of the life that ought to be celebrated in memorial.”

“What about ‘threnody?'” said Austin.

“Not familiar with that one,” Joan said. “What is it?”

“A song or poem composed as a memorial. It’s the same idea as a dirge or an ode, but with emphasis not on the sadness but the memory. A subtle distinction, perhaps, but crucial.”

“Threnody…” Joan murmured, as if turning the word over in her mouth to get its taste. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you might,” Austin said. He passed a sheaf of music to Joan. “Here. A threnody for Olivia.”

 

August 9, 2011

From “High Scores on the Road to North Korea” by Anderson James McKnight II

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“What outlet do you hope to find for your skills, especially in this economy?” Tanaka said, folding his hands across his lap. “You know as well as I do that Sandstorm is one of the top computer game development firms in the world. With the way you left…would anyone be willing to hire you, even if the economy improved?”

“I’m listening,” said Dennis. Clay looked like he was about to say something, but was silenced by a wave of his roommate’s hand.

“I have in this briefcase two first-class tickets to Beijing and reservations in a five-star hotel near Tienanmen Square,” said Tanaka. “There is also a twenty thousand dollar down payment, ten thousand for each of you. If you accept, you will have six weeks to put your affairs in order before the plane leaves. Our agents will meet you in China and arrange for you to cross the border into the DPRK.”

“And once we’re there?” Dennis asked.

“You will be provided with a generous stipend, use of a government villa, and all the associated privileges normally granted to high-level government workers, including access to imported materials at no charge. In return, you will use your programming skills in the service of the DPRK for a period of two years after which you will be allowed to emigrate with your accrued earnings and any imported items you wish to take.” Tanaka looked at the programmers over the wire rims of his glasses. “If you attempt to report any details of this arrangement to your government, of course, they will find that Hirosaki Tanaka has been dead since 1978 and the money and tickets are all connected with international heroin smuggling. You have one hour to make your decision.”

 

August 6, 2011

From “The Horror at Demon’s Island” by Jean Phillippe DuClare

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“You consider this to be the lap of luxury, Captain?” Pierre said, indicating his hut with a sweep of the hand. “Believe me, I am almost ready for the regimen and steady diet of penal colony life after this.”

“Tell me what happened, Pierre. And stop talking us in circles or you’ll find yourself under the guillotine or up against a pockmarked wall.”

“The supply ships stopped coming two years ago,” Pierre said. “About when Paris fell. Order broke down, the guards deserted us in the middle of the night and took the only boats. The lucky ones made it ashore by swimming. The unlucky ones? Maybe still on one of the islands. Maybe shark food. Isn’t that what you’re here to find out?”

 

August 5, 2011

From “The Spooner Gambit” by Ellis C. Langdon

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“Here,” the clerk said, shoving the logbook at Travis. “There’s his name and info.”

Travis ran his finger along the entry. “Hirosaki Nagashima.”

“Like I told you,” said the clerk. “Asian guy. Sounds Japanese, I think.”

“And you didn’t see anything unusual about that name,” Travis sighed.

“Other than the fact that it’s Japanese?”

Travis slammed the book. “Other than the fact that our saboteur signed in with a name that’s a spoonerism of ‘Hiroshima Nagasaki?’ He was counting on having a dumb-ass American behind the counter, and by the sound of it you were lucky to finish fourth grade!”

 

August 4, 2011

From “The 1000 Insane Poets of the Late Dynasty” by Nokin Kobayashi, translated and adapted by Irene York

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“You should be honored,” said the Vice-Counselor. “The Emperor has bestowed a great favor on your younger brother.”

“Imprisonment is not a favor,” said Wei. “My brother should be among family.”

“Your filial piety is impressive, but do not think that absolved you of responsibility should you oppose the Son of Heaven,” the Vice-Counselor replied. “The Emperor’s word is final.”

Wei was led into a large room, richly decorated, where many writing surfaces and quills with inkstones were on display. “Your brother and the other divine poets will be housed here, given access to food, drink, concubines, and the Imperial Library. All the Emperor asks in return is that their maddened scribblings continue to flow.”

“And why is that, exactly?” said Wei.

“For amusement. Many of the writings can be surprisingly beautiful. For insight, as well, since the shen spirits speak to them in an altogether different way.”

 

August 3, 2011

From “Trench Warfare in the Egerton Country Reference Room” by Cullen O’Doul Rogerson

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The red ribbon from the opening ceremony hung in tatters from Grady’s rifle. He’d wrapped it around the barrel and stock as a sort of improvised sling.

“I bought and paid for this building.” Grady said, staring directly at Fellowes through the glass. “And you’re not getting it back until my wrongs are redressed.”

“It’s a Carnegie library,” said Fellowes, never for a moment taking his eyes off the barrel of Grady’s rifle. “You didn’t pay for it any more than I did.”

“I have paid, several times over, even!” Grady shouted. The scars on his face brightened with rising, angry blood. “First as a millworker for U.S. Steel, lining Andy C’s pockets! Then as a tenant, with taxes to help build and equip it! And finally in blood, defending it against Hun machine guns in the Ardennes!”

 

August 2, 2011

From “Days Until Impact” by Jessica T. Tubmann

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Days until impact: 19
I need to do something. Something meaningful that will stand the test of time, even if that time is short for all of us. Maybe if it’s meaningful enough, something, somewhere will take notice and do something. Remember me, maybe, or even intervene. It may be a long shot, but I don’t want to have lived a meaningless life.

Days until impact: 11
I’ve tried some things. Writing? Who’s got the time to read it, even if it were any good, even if it could be distributes. Taking pictures? Pedestian. Who’ll care to look at anything I have access to? Even if I dropped everything there isn’t time to make even a grand gesture, let alone a grand deed.

Days until impact: 5
It’s all been meaningless. Everything. Like shadow puppets on the wall: insubstantial and ephemeral. Trying to hold onto anything, trying to do anything, is just making a new and meaningless toy that will vanish as soon as the light fades.

Days until impact: 1
It’s a miracle. I daren’t even write it down, for fear of extinguishing that fragile flame. But it is, or may be, what we’ve all needed.

 

August 1, 2011

From “The Qaus Run” by Melina al-Maghriz Durston

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“No, I’m not going to that address,” Nasir said. “Not again.”

“Look,” sighed Dispatch. “He’s a good tipper, and you get a lot of business in his neighborhood so you’re always closest. Take the fare. If he bugs you, monkey with the meter a little to get time and a half.”

“It’s not the money. I’m not doing it.” Nasir cried.

“Look, I’m through arguing. You take the fare or you find another cab company to drive for. Plenty of Arabic speakers who can drive stick would do the Little Mecca loop for half what you’re pulling in.”

Nasir turned off the radio in disgust and made his way to Dr. Qaus’s apartment. The good doctor was curbside, loaded with satchels and papers.

“Good morning,” he said. Nasir glanced at his dash clock: 2:53pm. “Take me to the university cyclotron. I’ve a set of equations to test and there’s only a few hours’ window.”

“Which university?”

“I don’t have time for all your questions! Drive!”

 

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