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Call me Philoctetes. My real name doesn’t matter, and I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you what it is, anyway. Security concerns, you understand. What you need to know about me is that I was a US Army Green Beret—one of the Quiet Professionals. Usually tasked with working with the locals in counterinsurgency efforts and the like. The stuff that doesn’t—or shouldn’t—make the newspapers.
Kess stepped through the scrolling yellow police holo, rubbing her bagged eyes. The latest victim was male, mid-forties, sprawled in a small dark pool of blood turning to slush in the winter air. His belly had been rent open with short, savage strokes. “Another inverse stabbing,” Barbier said, holding up a red-smeared evidence bag. “What a lucky cop you are, Kess. First month on the job and you get a serial killer.”
Finch’s dad always said a book could neither plow the earth nor feed a mare, so Finch wasn’t surprised when his secret bestiary turned out to be alive. He inherited it upon his father’s death in the summer of Finch’s fifteenth year. After burying his father in the meadow near his favorite horse’s grave, Finch read the handwritten will that wouldn’t have withstood the rigors of Law, but was good enough for them.
Every morning before work, I measure the Queen of the Andes. I’ve nicknamed her Nova because her trunk is a ball of spikes that reminds me of a supernova in slow motion, an explosion of leaves pointing in two hundred and three directions from the core of the bromeliad (the largest of her species—and the last). For almost thirty years, Nova has been growing, her presence in the garden expanding, like a true queen’s.
It’s only after they’ve loaded the moving truck halfway with boxes that the parents finally notice Parker’s gone. They spend three days yelling for him. Mom waits the longest, wanders the farthest into the forest in the dark. Her voice is a plea, an agonized howl, an echo of the day Eli closed his eyes and never opened them again. “Parker,” she cries, “Come on, be a good boy. Please.”
Take a deep breath. Hold on to something. When you open that door, it’s going to feel like you’re dying, but in the best possible way. You’ve done the homework. Studied the colorful maps, the security schedule, the camera placement. You’re rusty, but ready. You zip your jumpsuit up to the base of your neck and tighten your backpack. You’re in a crowded transit hub in the aft section of the ship. Huge transparent windows line the cavernous space.
The desert is full of bones. Sometimes, if you listen, the bones will speak. From a distance, the Bone-Gatherer may look like he is wandering, with his basket made of dried hyssop on his back and his arms and legs and head all covered in black-blue feathers that flicker like tongues of lightless fire. He may look as if he is merely roving—a nomadic traveler stretching his lanky legs, with no singular destination in mind.
The most beautiful boy you have ever seen in your life is hot-wiring a spaceship. It’s an objectively unsexy spaceship, insofar as a spaceship can be unsexy—a six-seater built like a 2008 Honda Odyssey, a car model you’re only aware of because it continues to appear in memes. The boy is decidedly not unsexy, though. His name is Eddie, he’s your xenobiology lab partner, and he’s currently bent over the spaceship’s popped hood.
I rang the Academy bell the first time, when both it and I were new-penny bright, and I rang it at the end, when it was gray-green with the centuries. I was the school’s mascot and its totem and its faithful servant. By night I cleaned the halls and read the chalkboard ghosts before consigning them to oblivion. In the library, I gently laid sleeping heads on tables and reshelved the books they’d used as pillows. It may be hubris for a soulless thing of brass to say so, but if the Academy belonged to anyone, it belonged to me.
Crunches and shrieks buffeted the Magellan LLC smartship as it plunged into Enceladus’s kilometers-thick ice crust, making their way to the subsurface ocean and the rival LuxeSpace corporation’s station situated there. Warning signals flashed through Jarrell and his fellow shipminds’ readouts, but they followed their orders and continued inward. They’d long since learned to ignore such dangers—the digitized brains of former human corporate-soldiers that controlled smartships could afford to take risks and go places traditionally-crewed spaceships wouldn’t dare.
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