The Future and Other Fictions

A fiction blog for short fiction, culture reviews and discussions of creative art

Daenerys is not the Mad Queen.

Game of Thrones surprised virtually no one in Season 8, Episode 5 by turning Daenerys Targaryen into a bloodthirsty ‘Mad Queen’.” –

“With that rise has come the hardest fall, and the penultimate installment of the series finds Daenerys Targaryen consumed by anger and paranoia, turning into the Mad Queen that her ancestry has foretold.” –

“How could the daughter of the Mad King who promised to break the wheel, to be better than those who came before, become the same evil that these characters have fought so hard to destroy?” –

“Daenerys was always a Mad Queen.” – ScreenRant

So, the consensus is in. Daenerys Targaryen, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, is now Burner of Cities and Mad Queen. Ninety percent of the internet is up in arms decrying this volte-face in the character of the Khaleesi we’ve all come to love. The other ten percent are rationalising, pointing out that this character turn has been well signposted along the way, Daenerys has always been a bit of a ruthless tyrant in waiting, and we shouldn’t be surprised that she’s now gone blotto.

They’re all wrong.

It doesn’t help that the writers, D.B.Weiss and David Benioff, don’t appear to be singing from the same songbook in their post-episode interviews and commentary. Benioff leans towards the “ruthless dictator” end of the spectrum: “I think that when she says ‘let it be fear’ she’s resigning herself to the fact that she may have to get things done in a way that isn’t pleasant… A Targaryen choosing violence is a pretty terrible thing.”

David Weiss, on the other hand, fully buys into the ‘brain snap’ approach. “I don’t think she decided ahead of time that she was going to do what she did. And then she sees the Red Keep, which is, to her, the home that her family built when they first came over to this country 300 years ago. It’s in that moment, on the walls of King’s Landing, when she’s looking at that symbol of everything that was taken from her, when she makes the decision to make this personal.”

Regardless of whether Dany chose to raze King’s Landing as a level-headed, reluctant, strategic decision – to sow fear in the Seven Kingdoms and establish her reign in the face of continued opposition and a possible Jon Snow-led insurrection – or whether it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, classifying the inhabitants of King’s Landing indiscriminately as enemies due to them not bowing to her when they had the chance – in either case, Dany’s approach here does not qualify her for the moniker of “Mad Queen.”

She sacked a city. She killed the inhabitants indiscriminately. Her followers, on the ground, aided and abetted with rape, looting and pillaging of their own. Grey Worm and his Unsullied skewered unarmed, surrendered Lannister soldiers. The remnants of her Dothraki horde swept through the city slaughtering women and children, looting treasures (and, presumably, taking slaves) just as they have been doing for hundreds of years back in their homeland.

None of this is special. This is just what happens, when a city falls to a conqueror.

In fact, it could be argued that of all the major characters in the series, Daenerys is the only one who’s acting rationally in this moment. Every other character seems to somehow think that the Lannister soldiers throwing down their swords means the war is over, Dany can sit on the Iron Throne and everybody from all the Kingdoms will start kow-towing to her. They’re all wrong. Dany knows that she doesn’t command the loyalty of the people – she’s known that since the first season. She knows the people here will never love her the way the freed slaves of Meereen do. She knows she’ll never command the respect and love someone like Jon Snow does – and now she knows that he has the better claim to the throne, regardless of whether he wants it, and if she accepts King’s Landing’s surrender, her reign will never be free of insurrections aiming to put Jon Snow (or anyone else) on the throne in her place.

“Let it be fear, then,” she says earlier in the episode. She’s clearly planning to make King’s Landing an example. This is no brain snap.

“If the sight of the Red Keep suddenly causes her to fly into a rage … then why does she immediately start torching the city instead of the Red Keep? …  [She demonstrates] that she is completely, totally, and unstoppably terrifying, someone so vengeful and destructive (and maybe even crazy) that you really don’t want to even think about coming close to considering getting anywhere near her bad side.” –

It’s terribly sad to see King’s Landing succumbing to such depredations after Daenerys made such a point of painting herself as different to the dictators that came before her. Probably she still has a noble intention to “break the wheel”, to save the innocents of future generations from living under the heel of a tyrant, but she hasn’t made a great start of it. How she gets from where she is now – the ruthless destroyer of King’s Landing and a great proportion of its inhabitants – to where she wants to be, a benevolent ruler of peace and freedom, is not a clear path. I would guess that next Monday’s episode will put paid to the idea once and for all, whether Daenerys continues her path to dictatorship or whether she’s killed by Jon, Arya, or the half dozen or so others whom the writers are setting up as potential Queenslayers.

But choice or reflex, the sack of King’s Landing does not in itself make Daenerys a Mad Queen. The madness that afflicts Targaryens is much more insane than mere tyranny. Aerys suffered schizophrenia and paranoia, and ended up burning people alive for fun. Aerion believed drinking wildfire would turn him into a dragon (spoiler alert: it did not). Aegon II fed his sister to his dragon and forced his nephew to watch. Rhaegel had delusions and was known to randomly take off his clothes and dance naked through the halls of the Red Keep. (Source:

Next to these behaviours, Daenerys’ attack on King’s Landing was rational and deliberate. It will have the intended outcome, of building Daenerys’ reputation and suppressing any thoughts of resistance. It is neither the most brutal nor unwarranted action in the long War of the Five Kings, but it will certainly put an end to them.

The only reason we (the viewers, and the Internet) consider this action to be a “descent into madness” is because we’re viewing it through modern eyes. Judging by the standards of today, in our world where war and violence are remote and bloodless things, ignoring a surrender is unthinkable, the height of vicious savagery. But Game of Thrones occurs in a world where there is no Geneva Convention. There are no accepted limits to behaviour: Power is Power, and Daenerys has the ultimate power in the form of her dragon. Who will gainsay her decisions? She can have detractors Dracarys‘ed and call it stability, for the good of the realm, and she wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

I imagine that the writers, in the final episode of the series next Monday, will commit fully to Daenerys’ advisors being horrified enough at her actions to fall away, to betray her. It won’t be true to that world, but it will be true to ours. It is likely that, finding herself further betrayed, Daenerys will turn some more of our favourite characters to cinders. The show will portray these as evil acts, further cementing Daenerys as a villain and Jon/Arya/Sansa/whoever else as honourable and just.

If I were writing the show, I would have Daenerys ascend what remains of the Iron Throne and rule as the just and virtuous Queen she always imagined herself to be. With a council of advisors ruling over the various Kingdoms, she could put the events of The Bells behind her and bring a kind of peace to Westeros. Daenerys has always shown herself to be a caring and compassionate ruler, locking her dragons, her children, in a dark cellar because they killed one little girl. That Daenerys is not one to willingly burn her advisors and laugh as they die. That Daenerys is one willing to kill in the name of peace and stability, in the furtherance of her rule, but to regret and lament each time she’s forced to it. That Daenerys, after last week’s episode, is not yet lost.

It doesn’t look likely that this is the way the series will end. Whichever way it goes, Daenerys is not a Mad Queen, and perhaps never will be. She’s not a Mad Queen until she starts burning people and enjoying it.


Book review: Scales of Empire (Dragon empire trilogy 1) – by Kylie Chan

51eAOOZaHgL._UY250_Kylie Chan’s fantasy novels – White Tiger, Red Phoenix, Black Jade and a bunch of other colours – are endemic to bookshops at present. I haven’t yet read any of Chan’s work but the novels all bear stunning covers and are, apparently, well-regarded, and it was only a matter of time before I caved into the pressure and bought one.

Thank goodness, then, for the Never Never Book Box subscription, for which the centrepiece novel of its March box is Chan’s newest, Scales of Empire. The first in a new trilogy of space-opera epic science fiction, the cover is just as spectacular as we have come to expect from Harper Collins and the back-cover text promises much.

Corporal Jian Choumali is on the mission of a lifetime – security officer on one of Earth’s huge generation ships, fleeing Earth’s failing ecosystem to colonise a distant planet.
The ship encounters a technologically and culturally advanced alien empire, led by a royal family of dragons. The empire’s dragon emissary offers her aid to the people of Earth, bringing greater health, longer life, and faster-than-light travel to nearby stars.
But what price will the people of Earth have to pay for the generous alien assistance?” (from Amazon –

<spoilers follow>

What a pity that the back cover text and the spectacular cover do not represent the quality of the story inside. Reading the back cover, one is led to expect a hard sci-fi story about the struggles of a generation ship, deep intrigue of interplanetary politics, and potential conflict with alien cultures. Instead, we get a largely Earth-bound story about gender-fluid sex. Much of the cover text is flat-out wrong: the touted “generation ship” never launches, Earth’s “failing ecosystem” is magically repaired about sixty pages into the book, and the aliens come to Earth, rather than encountering the ship.

Misleading cover text is hardly a new thing or a hanging offence. More problematic is Chan’s prose style. Chan writes in first-person and a breathless train of consciousness, which might work for some authors, but she does it with virtually no exposition. I’ve seen writing advice from popular authors that this is the current fashion – to avoid description or introspection in favour of action, action and more action.

But you need to have something happen for that action to be important. There have to be stakes, and this is the novel’s great failing. There are no clear antagonists. What stakes there might have been get waved away by magic technology early on in the book.

Climate change has decimated the Earth – population has fallen to about a billion. Seas have risen and claimed large portions of the landmass. Nation-blocs are at each other’s throats, and mankind itself is on a decline towards extinction, leading to the need for generation ships. The first 30-odd pages of the novel are about the main character’s recruitment to the colony ship program and they do a fair job of sketching a civilisation in decline.

But then the aliens appear and everything changes. In short order the climate is restored, landmasses reclaimed, and humanity has been provided with technology, health, and offers of assistance for interplanetary colonisation efforts.

The planet’s temperature is decreased (magically and without fanfare, “offscreen” – a character simply says that it’s happened) and the ice caps recover, so suddenly there’s heaps of land again. If the environmental threat to the planet and species was the main driver of stakes here, then it’s over by quarter of the way through the book.

Chan wants to focus instead on the aliens and their intentions for Earth. Apparently the aliens are completely benevolent – but do they have an ulterior motive for their help? It takes almost two thirds of the novel before any real danger or challenge appears – to the main characters, or to the autonomy of Earth and its governments. Before this, there’s nothing for the characters to overcome, no stakes.

Kylie Chan spends far more time talking about the main characters having sex (or refusing to have sex) with dragons, than she does talking about nation states or interplanetary intrigue. It becomes a major plot point whether dragons deliberately or naturally inspire unthinking devotion in other species, and the overarching theme of the novel is about free will, and how it interacts with needing assistance from others.

If the novel’s primary failings are thematic, it doesn’t help that it’s so poorly written or edited. Chan has a real problem with telling, rather than showing. Constantly we are told how people are feeling or what their motivations are, rather than inferring this from their dialogue or actions. The narrator / main character is a telepath and possibly she is able to sense some of this – emotions, attempts to mislead – but it’s still bad writing for the reader to be told about someone’s emotions rather than shown them. And if we’re not being told flatly what characters are feeling, events are being described in dialogue – but it’s bad dialogue.

“Alien invasion! Look at the size of that ship! It just popped into existence next to the Brittania.” That’s the way Chan introduces the arrival of an alien emissary, the first time humans have ever encountered extraterrestrial life – by having an unnamed extra character announce its appearance.

The aliens themselves are unconvincing in the extreme. Chan fills her book with dragons (never described – are we talking Chinese dragons, Tolkien dragons, Komodo dragons?) and humanoid cats. She then adds feathered dinosaurs, giant slugs and “an alien very much like a three-metre-long six-legged Old English sheepdog” (complete with wagging tail and predilection for chasing things). The aliens all speak in modern vernacular. The eight-hundred year old princess dragon emissary sounds like a teenager: “Nah, I think I’ll stick with these two. Richard’s hot and Jian’s super-smart. Lead on.” The amount of time the princess dragon spends talking about “love” (which is totally not just about sex, although yes, it’s really about sex) rather than the way the Empire works or is governed, just makes her seem immature.

A great deal of the text is written in passive voice. Laser beams shoot through space, rather than people or ships firing them. People fall dead, and the reader has to reverse-engineer what just happened to them because nowhere in the text does it say that someone fired a weapon. On far too many occasions I had to re-read a passage in order to identify who was doing what to whom, and sometimes it wasn’t even clear after detailed consideration.

There are major problems with the plot. The novel begins as a Japanese generation ship, launched 300 years earlier, is approaching its destination. So the Japanese have sent their ship on a 300-year journey, and the other nations don’t think to send their own ships (to different destinations) until they hear the results? By the time the other nations are getting ready to launch, it’s clear that the Japanese ship / colony has failed, so what were the other nations waiting for? If the threat to their nations is that dire that evacuation of the Earth is important, why wait three hundred years? The dragons appear with an offer of assistance and suddenly every nation and its dog is putting together a colony ship and will be ready to go in months?

The seas have risen and people exist on mountainsides and artificial terraced islands, growing water-crops like rice and coffee. Yet water is rationed and you can’t even have baths/regular showers. We have desalination technology now in the 21st century. The date of this novel is not given but at one point the dragons (magically and without fanfare) reset the CO2 in the atmosphere to “mid twenty-second century levels”.

The technology throughout the book is entirely inconsistent. In the hundreds of years between the 21st century and whenever this book is set (sometime after the 22nd century, and at least 300 years from the near future) mankind has not developed aquatic cities, interplanetary or moon colonies, convincing prosthetics or gene technology, all things that are currently under active development. Kylie Chan has clearly done a modicum of research in a few areas – the requirements for a generation ship project and some of the detail of the interplanetary colonies that get founded during the story show a grasp of detail. But this level of detail is scant. For most of the novel, there appears to be no clear or consistent understanding of what the near future will actually be like. Military officers still carry ‘revolvers’.

The novel goes out of its way to describe a sexually-fluid society. The main character Choumali has a wife and a husband and this is unremarkable. Yet the other main human character gets shocked and dismayed when he learns that the dragon emissary has multiple spouses and children.

The ending is just as risible as the opening. The denouement of the story revolves around a highly effective non-lethal weapon that can be used against one of the antagonists of the story, the aforementioned humanoid cats. The dragons are a peaceable race that prefer not to fight, and run from any engagement. Apparently, though, so do every other race of beings in this vast dragon empire. We’re supposed to believe that among trillions of sentient beings and thousands of years of scientific development, humanity is the only one to have developed non-lethal weaponry? The host of intelligent races that make up the Empire hail the arrival of humans as the salvation of their many different peoples, as if Mankind’s warlike past is somehow unique. Yet the Dragon empire has been visiting the planet for millennia to shape the development of Mankind. Couldn’t they have picked up a stock of rubber bullets on one of their previous visits?

There are some interesting concepts on display here, the most intriguing being the idea of spaceships being little more than cargo holds that their dragon pilots drag with them. The dragons can ‘fold’ through space, instantly teleporting themselves and whatever they’re holding to another place. Combine this with the idea that dragons can procreate with other species, and their part-human descendants could then pilot spacecraft, and you have the possibility for drama as Earth officials try to balance the ethics and practical considerations of breeding part-humans for a specific purpose. Other species have faster-than-light travel, but this is still far slower than the dragons – a single interstellar journey, which might take a week in relativistic time (for the pilot) takes decades from an external perspective. Probably the most promising element of the book is the sentient AI Marque, even if its capabilities do sometimes verge on being a deus ex machina – I would expect to learn more about Marque in the next books in the series.

These interesting concepts, married with a space-operatic story full of dragons, telepaths, murderous felines and space colonies (and lots and lots of gender-fluid sex) should have resulted in a fun, thought-provoking read. Unfortunately the amateur prose and the failure of the author to fulfil the primary function of a novel – to convincingly convey the narrative of the story – makes it a hard slog. The first in a new trilogy, I won’t be hurrying to pick up the sequel.

The Never Never Book Box – text unboxing and review

Today I received a mystery box from one of my subscriptions. If you haven’t caught up with this trend, subscription boxes are curated collections of themed goods, sent to subscribers usually monthly or bimonthly. For your hard-earned, you get a collection of gear or goods that you might have otherwise not paid for, usually some junk you would never have paid for, and occasionally a real gem or surprise that you never knew existed but now I know it’s real Take My Money Oh Wait Now I Have One. Subscription boxes cover the gamut of life, from comics and computer games to makeup, lingerie, fresh food, men’s fashion, and literature. The box I received today, fresh-shipped from the USA and thus arriving a fortnight after everyone else has theirs, included a lovely coffee mug. Which was broken. <Sigh>

Coincidentally, I also received today the very first box from the new subscription service, the Never Never Book Box. The Never Never Book Box is Australia’s first (and probably only) spec-fic literature subscription box. You had me at “Australian”, because it probably won’t reach me in multiple pieces and it won’t be subject to the vicissitudes of Australian customs. But it’s about books. Books from Australian authors. Science-fiction and fantasy books by Australian authors. Needless to say, being enthused by the concept and hopeless at managing my money, I subscribed in a shot, and I have been hanging out with avid anticipation for this delivery.

Part of the joy of a subscription box is the anticipation, and the rush of exhilaration in rifling through the loot, each new treasure examined in detail. It’s like a lottery and a Christmas stocking, all wrapped up into one handy box. For me, the contents of the box are secondary to the experience of unpacking it, bringing each piece into the light and into my life. So, naturally, I’m going to go through the contents of the very first ever Never Never Book Box and spoil all of that for you.

Obviously, spoilers. If you have subscribed to this service but haven’t received yours yet, feel free to bookmark this and come back later. If you haven’t subscribed, you might still be able to get this box – they might have a few left. If not, they ship a new box every two months, and if you use the link below you can get $5 off a subscription.

This month’s theme is “The Stories We Keep”.

Starting off with the box itself, it’s a combination of stylish white with faux-ribbon and a printed seal, with the bruising treatment of going through the post. Still, it’s the insides that count. So we slit open the sealing tape and open it up…

The very first thing that pops out, swaddled in reams of black tissue paper, is a classy business card for the Never Never Book Box. On the reverse, a twitter handle. Okay, do we have direct access to the creators of the book box? Actually, something arguably even better. On top of the box is a letter, proudly secured with an actual wax seal. The letter goes through the whole contents of the box and how they relate to the theme, but I didn’t want to spoil the experience by reading any kind of unboxing before I, you know, unboxed, so I’ll come back to it later. But it does explain the twitter handle.

Now to the actual goodies. And the first thing is… a magnetic page keeper. This is an Alice in Wonderland, by The Rabbit Tribe, and it’s like a bookmark only modern. Because magnets. I love it already. Like many of us, I have a half dozen books I’m halfway through reading and I’m always in need of new bookmarky goodness, so yay! Complementing the page keeper is a badge. It seems a tiresome necessity – every subscription box I’ve ever received has some kind of a badge (or “pin”, as they call them in the States). This one is a Dreaming Book – that is to say, a book. Which is dreaming. If you’re the kind of person who decorates jackets or backpacks with dozens of badges/pins, you might get something out of this. Not being that kind of person myself and with a small child in the house, I don’t think this thing will last. But thoughts of sharp objects are dispelled with the next item…

Which is a notepad. This is green, and hard-back, and high quality as notebooks go. I’m always in need of new notepaper and I’m sure I’ll get use from this. The cover design of almost-Eucalypt foliage was chosen for its resemblance to the classic covers for Snugglepot and Cuddlepie, although I was always more of a Runaway Pudding man.

Wrapped in black paper so that I almost missed it at first is a small glass jar. Inside the jar is “Alice’s Size-Altering Mug Cake”. It’s a cake mix, with instructions: to make this you’ll need some milk and some butter, a mug and a microwave. Not quite as magical as is the wont of Wonderland, but speaking as a modern man, a microwave is a magic all of its own. And like Arthur C Clarke once opined, any technology sufficiently advanced, yada yada…

But this wouldn’t be a Never Never Book Box unless it included books, and it has two. The first is a card/code for an ebook: Soulless – The Immortal Gene Book 1, by Jacinta Maree. I’ve never heard of the book nor the author, but the blurb looks interesting. “…a world plagued by reincarnation… where all past memories, personalities and traumatic events are relived daily”. The novel is about the one person who is immune to the plague of reincarnation, and of course that means she’s going to be pursued. This could be very good indeed, or very bad. Looking it up on Amazon is slightly dispiriting because the Kindle version is currently just $1.00, but on the other hand it has a swag of four- and five-star reviews. There’s a sequel also available, which is also inexpensive, and if it’s as good as it looks like it might be, that’s going to be a good thing.

So now we come to the centrepiece of this box. Each box in the Never Never subscription comes with a featured novel in print, along with a signed book plate and a personal letter from the author. This book comes secure in its own brown-paper wrapping (but no, it’s not that kind of book), with a bookmark (yay bookmarks!), the signed bookplate sticker, and the book itself. This month’s featured book is The Tides Between, by Elizabeth Jane Corbett. From the blurb: “In 1841, on the eve of her departure from London, Bridie’s mother demands she forget her dead father and prepare for a sensible, adult life in Port Phillip. Desperate to save her childhood, fifteen-year-old Bridie is determined to smuggle a notebook filled with her father’s fairy tales to the far side of the world… [but] the words written in Bridie’s notebook carry a dark double meaning.”

It’s a handsome book, a brand new release from Australian publisher Odyssey Books, which I have been following for a while. The Tides Between was not on my wishlist and probably not the kind of book that would have captured my attention, but now that I have it in my hands I will most certainly read it. Believe it or not, this book is too new to have any reviews, so now you know as much about it as I do! This is a situation I shall have to remedy – the lack of reviews, that is, not your ignorance.

Oh, and that twitter handle I mentioned? Apparently I’ve been assigned a “Reading Buddy”. How about that: a subscription box that’s actively encouraging the creation of a community. Colour me impressed.

Part of the value of a subscription box is the quality of the curation. With the Never Never Book Box, we’re relying on the service to pick out interesting, worthwhile books, but not so popular that everybody will already have bought them. No easy feat, when you’re pitching your subscription at avid Australian readers of science fiction and trying to provide Australian science fiction, but based on this first box they seem to be off to a good start. The subscription is not the cheapest out there, but the variety and quality of its contents this time around give hope that this will be the kind of subscription box that keeps on giving. I can certainly say that I’ll use, and get enjoyment from, everything in this box, far more than I will a broken coffee mug.

Well, everything except the badge, I guess.

Subscribe here:

A Trick of the Light

A little something for Hallowe’en…

“There’s someone at the door,” said Hannah.

Sean couldn’t help but feel proud. Only five years old, and way ahead of the curve. His daughter was at such a precious age, fearless and inventive and a veritable sponge for knowledge. But also so fragile, so in need of protection – from cold winds at night in her pyjamas, from the harsh realities of the world, from her own insatiable curiosity.

“Bed time now,” he told her, advancing down the long entry hall, trying to keep his voice stern. “Go say good night to your mother.” He smiled as she cheerfully obeyed, skipping off towards the front of the house. Sean approached the front door to see their alleged visitor.

The front door of the house was a slab of oak two inches thick, perfectly balanced on its hinges so it could swing open with the merest of sighs; during this past summer more than once the warm breezes had swung it shut unexpectedly. Inset into the door were two tall frosted glass panels, lacquered with a design of dolphins, looking for all the world like an attempt at very cheap lead-lighting. That door was the sheer door-itude of Fort Knox married to the whimsy of Disney.

On the front porch, visible through the dolphin glass, a man stood dark and motionless.

A moment later, and Sean saw his mistake. The silhouette of a man was actually just a trick of the light; the lamp-post on the street outside masked by trees on the front lawn and the porch’s own overhanging roof. All the same, he could see why Hannah had been confused; through the frosting and at first glance, it could so easily have been someone standing on the front steps, a man silent and menacing in his intent solitude.

He’d never seen this pattern of shadows before, and a moment later he realised why. The porch light had not come on with the dusk, for the first time since they moved in. Normally this light, burning automatically for a few hours after the fall of night, triggered by a tiny sensor on the wall, would have kept the door brighter and dispelled the shadows. When they had first bought the place, Sean had wondered about that light, about its unusual settings; rather than turning on at the disturbance of motion, or as required from a light switch like normal lights, why would you have a light turn on every night of the year? Now, he guessed, he could see why. The shadow man was unsettling. More than unsettling; it gave him goose bumps, and the cold he felt was more than the autumn breeze under the jamb of the door.

He resolved to find a new bulb for the porch light as soon as the stores opened in the morning. It was too cold and too dark to be playing around with electric lights right now; the morning would be soon enough. It felt like an excuse even if it was true. He left the front door firmly closed.

As he went in search of his daughter, who was bound to be hiding from him by now in a vain effort to avoid her bed for a while longer, he felt watched.


“I think he’s lonely,” said Hannah.

“There’s nobody there, darling,” said Rebecca, spooning scrambled eggs onto toast for breakfast. She was unable to completely mask her annoyance; despite her best efforts over the past month, she hadn’t been able to convince her daughter that the curious shadow was no more than a trick of the light. It didn’t help matters that Sean was reluctant to be drawn on the subject. Whenever required, he would support his wife, but neither she nor Hannah could have been entirely convinced by his half-hearted insistence.

“He’s just shadows,” he said now. “When I can get the light working again, you’ll see, he’ll be gone. Light chases shadows away.”

“Lonely,” said Hannah stubbornly. Rebecca pushed a plate of eggs under her daughter’s nose, and as the girl started shovelling she shot a glance at her husband.

“When are you going to get the light fixed?” she asked.

“I’ll try again this evening,” Sean said. “There’s a store in Fairfield that might have the right bulb.” And it might not, he didn’t add. So far there had been six different bulbs, all supposedly the same as the one he kept tucked in his coat pocket, none of them giving the slightest glimmer in the porch light fitting. He was starting to become slightly more comfortable with the front porch; spending his evenings out on the step as the shadows fell, light blazing out through the dolphin panels from every light in the entry hall, had not so far harmed him. And the man-shaped shadow was only visible from within the house, seen through the door; open the door and the shadows remained but became formless. It didn’t stop him wanting, more than anything, to get the light working again.

He was secretly terrified of the entryway to his own house. He didn’t think Rebecca had noticed yet, but he spent as little time as he could there, ducking in and out under the cover of daylight as much as possible; he wouldn’t step outside at night without every light burning behind him that he could find, and preferably with a torch at his belt.

Over the past weeks, as autumn encroached, the winds and the waving of the trees had given the dark shadow a semblance of life and movement. Sometimes it even seemed to be breathing, shoulders rising and falling. And last night…

Last night it had seemed bigger. Or closer.


“I told him to come in,” said Hannah. “He was cold.”

Outside it was sleeting, the wind pushing the wet almost horizontally. The icy wind swirled through the entry hall from the front door, standing wide open with his daughter’s innocent eyes upon his. Slowly he approached. She was in her flannel pyjamas; warm enough for nights within the shelter of the house, but not nearly enough protection against the rage of winter.

“Close the door,” he said. “You’ll catch your death of cold.” He had to help her with it, the wind seeming to fight their attempts. Fort Knox stood open.

With the door finally closed, he turned to Hannah. Her hair was tousled and her cheeks flushed. He felt her shirt-sleeve; it was cold, slightly damp from the rain. “Your PJs are wet. You need to change into something dry. Go ask your mum to help you.”

She grinned at him, seemingly none the worse for wear. The indestructibility of kids, he thought wearily. He watched as she skipped away.

Turning back to the door, it took him a moment to recognise the change. When he realised, he caught his breath, then let it out through his teeth in a long hiss.

The man-shadow was gone. The mottled shades of the trees outside flicked left and right, swaying in the wind, but the glass panels remained resolutely free of man-shaped silhouettes.

He didn’t have time to make up his mind to feel either relieved or consterned before the porch light flickered… once, twice… and came to life. The globe he’d left there weeks ago, an exercise in futility, his last attempt to get it working before the nights turned too cold and he started making excuses. The new globe shone like a young star, casting a warm orange glow into the entry hall. The shapes of dolphins leaped across the floor at his feet. Two dolphins in graceful flight, and a third below them.

It looked for a second like a grinning, toothy, malignant face, but that was surely just a trick of the light.

Seconds later there was a loud pop, and Sean started violently as the lights in the hall behind him blinked out. Every light in the house was dark. But the porch light shone on, the dolphins on the floor mocking him. “What the hell?” he muttered.

And that was when the screaming started.

The Orichalcum Hive-Mind

Gavin stood on the edge of emptiness and let vertigo roll over him.

In truth the plate-glass window overlooking the central plaza was inches thick and could take the weight of a thousand men, but he enjoyed the sensation of being suspended over infinity. The Residence was five hundred stories or more high – every time he thought he had its measure he would meet someone else from a floor he had not known existed. Sometimes he wondered if there was a practical limit at all; perhaps the City really was endless, and if you could find an elevator to take you all the way up you’d find your way back to where you started. One day, he thought, he might try.

Somewhere, far below, ten million men were going about their lives. When he considered them, he felt like a cog in a vast machine. Every day he would ride the elevator down to Ground 85, and every evening he would ride the elevator back up. His shift for today had ended an hour ago, hundreds of men on the next shift entering the Processors as he made his way out. The Processors generated food and air and power for the City and they never stopped. Day followed day and shift followed shift, and he grew older. One day he would be replaced. And the City would go on.

There was a knock on the door.

He had never had a visitor. Why should he? He was just a worker; every day he ate his ration, went to work in the Processors, made his way home, ate, and slept. What interest could anybody have in him?

He thought for a moment about the appropriate response. Clothes. He had dumped today’s clothes in the clean-chute when he got back to his apartment. Opening the wardrobe he took down a fresh pink tunic and shrugged into it; the yellow tunics hung at the end of the rail, as ever untouched. He didn’t even know why they were there, he would never wear them. Once, years ago, he had dumped them all into the waste disposal; the Controller hadn’t taken the hint and the next morning his wardrobe was restocked again with equal numbers of yellow and pink, all pristine and fresh-laundered.

There was a man at the door dressed in yellow. This was almost as unusual as the knock had been. This was a Pink area; over ninety percent of the inhabitants of this level were Pink. The man gave no sign that he had even registered the door was open. The man’s eyes were blank, unseeing. “Hello?” Gavin ventured experimentally.

The man in yellow’s hands lashed out and wrapped around Gavin’s throat.

The two of them went barrelling back into the apartment, and far from yellow and pink, Gavin’s world was going grey. And then the hands at his throat were gone and the man in yellow flopped aside; brilliant red leaked from his scalp. Another man stood over Gavin, and this man was neither yellow nor pink. He was dressed all in grey, and that was impossible.

“I’m sorry. I came as soon as I could,” the grey man said.

“Who are you?” Gavin demanded, getting to his feet and rubbing his bruised throat. “What do you want with me?”

“My name is Herald. I’m from the Grey Men. And you,” said the man in grey, “are our best and only hope. The lives of millions of people rely on you tonight.”

And that, of course, was the most impossible of all.


“You’ve got the wrong man,” he said as they rode the elevator down. Herald had insisted Gavin use his ident to operate the lift, as he didn’t have one of his own. This at least was something Gavin could believe; the Grey Men were ghosts and legends, and ghosts didn’t have idents. “I’m just a worker. I’m not a Protector.”

“If you were a Protector, I wouldn’t be within ten miles of you,” Herald said. “There’s no mistake. It didn’t have to be you specifically, you just happened to be one of the first attacked. You were fortunate I was following.”

Gavin was wearing a grey top over his tunic, obscuring his colour. Herald had told him, It may soon become unpleasant on the streets for those in pink, and we can’t afford the time. Gavin didn’t understand this. There was nothing about this he really understood. The lift was descending, far below Ground 85. Deeper than he had ever gone. He watched as they passed Ground 12. As if in reflection of his earlier thoughts, their descent seemed endless. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“We’ve going to see Sol,” Herald told him. “In the Undercroft.”

The Undercroft – the subterranean world that delved deep underneath the City, filled with Creepers and miscreants and Grey Men, was as much a legend as the Greys themselves, so Gavin thought this seemed perfectly consistent. “I’m just a worker,” he said stubbornly. “It’s not even my shift.”

The Undercroft was much like the Processors, Gavin found. The same cramped, narrow corridors; the same spacious chambers full of arcane equipment; the same ubiquitous strip lighting. But where the Processors were stuffed to overflowing with workers, the Undercroft was empty – Gavin barely saw a soul as they walked. And where the Processors were sterile and light and clean, the Undercroft was dark and dank, slime dripping off the walls.

Sol turned out to be a grizzled old man, with the kind of beard you could never get away with above ground. He met them, flanked with two other Grey Men, in one of the open chambers, his voice echoing in the hollow. The chamber had been converted into a garage of sorts, hovercars and trikes lined up in neat rows. “I’m sorry for the brusque welcome,” Sol said as Gavin entered. “I would have preferred to meet you more formally and with more time in hand, but things are falling apart out there and we need to move quickly if we’re to prevent wholesale slaughter.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” said Gavin. “What slaughter?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” said Sol. Herald and Sol’s acolytes shepherded Gavin into the back seat of a hovercar; he was joined in the rear seat by Herald and the old man. As the vehicle smoothly and silently accelerated away, Sol made good on his promise. “It begins, and ends, with the City. You see, the City is not a city at all. It’s a giant experiment in artificial intelligence.

“The experiment is intended to force the whole City to decide between the Idea and the Possibility; to declare for pink or for yellow.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Gavin. “Pink is so much better. Pink makes us stronger, faster, better.”

“And yet,” said Herald, “just minutes ago a man in yellow was within moments of killing you. Can you explain that?”

Sol laid a wrinkled hand on the younger man’s arm. “What Herald is trying to say is that there is no practical difference at all. All yellows believe the same of their colour as you just asserted for pink. What might surprise you more, is that people can change their allegiance over time. The experiment is all about the way in which that change can occur.”

Gavin listened in growing incomprehension as the old man talked. Snatches of his explanation rang true. “All citizens are implanted with their ident at birth,” was one statement that he could agree with. But the old man continued with: “The ident is a way for the Controller to keep track of the populace and where they go. Without idents, the Grey Men are limited in where we can go and what we can do. We can get to the Ground levels, but we don’t have access to the Residences or the Centre.”

“How can you not have idents?” Gavin asked.

“Sometimes children are born who will never be able to work. Others meet with mischance and lose their abilities. Sooner or later, all such end up down here. We take them in as Grey Men.”

The Undercroft walls were flashing by the windows, innumerable chambers and passages all tending upwards, as Sol explained that the ‘experiment’ would be over when all of the people of the City wore the same colour. “When the experiment ends, it is our belief that the Controller is programmed to shut down the City. Along with everyone in it. Until then, the City will go on – as it has for hundreds of years. We know this, because here in the Undercroft there are records, dating from before the earliest histories. We think that the Undercroft is another City, another experiment, completed ages ago. When it was done, the Builders built the City – our City – on the ruins of the old one.”

“So what do you want with me?” Gavin asked.

“Freedom,” said Sol. “Self-determination. We want to shut the whole damn thing down – we can’t allow the experiment to come to an end.”

“We need to destroy the Controller without the experiment ending,” said Herald. “Destroy the Controller, we end the experiment without ending the City.”

Gavin frowned. “Life isn’t so bad as it is. Yellow and pink are closely matched. It doesn’t sound like it’s all going to fall down overnight.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Herald.

“We’re out of time. That man who attacked you is one of the first. Everything has changed.” Sol took up the story. “One locus of the Controller has found a solution to the impasse. Through the ident, it is able to directly control its people. If it can’t persuade the Pinks to change, it will eliminate them.” The car was exiting the underground now, turning onto a ground plaza. Gavin watched in horror as the view out of the car’s windows became clear. The city was burning, and all around he could see violence.

“It’s begun,” said Sol. “Yellow will decimate Pink. Soon enough, the imbalance will become critical. It will be a genocide. Yellow will win, and the City ends.”

“Unless you can destroy the Controller,” Gavin guessed.

“Unless we can destroy the Controller,” said Sol.

“And that’s why you have to help us get in,” said Herald.


The Centre was a pillar of chrome that stretched into the sky like an accusing finger. The size of a city block, it anchored the centre of the City like a spindle. As Gavin and Herald left the hovercar behind and started across the open ground towards the base of the Centre, Gavin could see the mayhem around him escalating. There, a small group of yellows armed with metal poles were ambushing pinks as they exited the Processors. There, a yellow man armed with a knife chased an older man dressed in pink up the road; the man in pink stumbled, and the end was quick. Elsewhere, a team of zombie yellows were laying explosives at the base of a Residence. Gavin wanted to go and interrupt them, but Herald caught his arm. “Leave it,” he said. “They haven’t seen you yet, but if they catch a glimpse of pink under that shirt we gave you then we’re both dead. This will all cease if we succeed.”

“Let’s be quick then,” said Gavin.

As they approached the giant silver needle, Herald continued his exposition. “We need your ident to get into the Centre – it will open for a Resident. The experiment is designed to be self-limiting. But without idents, we’ve been unable to get access.”

“You can’t make your own idents?” Gavin asked.

“We are few in number, and we have limited resources. But the most critical resource of all is orichalcum, a metal with unique resonance properties. It ties the people together into one big neural net and connects them to the loci in the Controller. And of this metal, we have none at all. It does not exist within the City – except in trace amounts within the ident chips. Even were we to retrieve ident chips from City residents, we would be unable to extract and work with the trace amounts.”

That was the moment at which three identical men in white tunics stepped around the nearer corner of the Centre building. Herald and Gavin were crossing open space and there was no cover; the Protectors saw them immediately. Moving as one, they lifted their arms and pointed in Gavin’s direction.

Run!” Herald cried, and demonstrated the method. It was all Gavin could do to keep up. They crossed the remaining metres in seconds and Gavin slapped his palm against the reader next to the great double doors. Ponderously they began to open, and amidst the thock! thock! thock! of gunfire, Gavin and Herald dashed inside.

“That was close,” Gavin panted, unaccustomed to exertion.

Herald put his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting. “They were Protectors,” he said. “Protectors don’t miss.” His grey shirt was slowly going black as blood sheeted down his chest. “Go on,” he said. “Last chance. Take off… shirt. Protectors… won’t follow you… ”

Gavin left his grey overshirt behind him as he moved deeper into the building. Behind him came the terrible sounds of the Protectors reaching Herald; programmed to immediately destroy anyone not showing their colours of allegiance, they were brutal in their efficiency. The path into the building was straight as an arrow and without turn-offs; the sounds receded quickly as Gavin followed the corridor to its end, silver doors flanking another elevator shaft.

This carriage rode up and up endlessly, but Gavin was used to that by now. Eventually it came to a halt, and the doors opened onto a large room. In the centre of the chamber stood an obelisk of obsidian, inlaid with an intricate pattern of circuitry in golden copper.

A soothing voice filled the air, higher pitched than any man he’d ever heard; it was disturbing, but also somehow pleasing. “Welcome, citizen. Have you come to adjust the running parameters?”

The words were strange but he divined their meaning. “I have,” he called.

“Ready,” said the voice. “Please indicate preferred colour.”

This was it. The moment his life had been building towards. He brought the heavy hammer out from behind his back and advanced on the obelisk. Standing over it, at the centre of all he had ever known, he couldn’t bring himself to swing the weapon. An hour ago he had been a mere worker; now he held the fate of the City in his hands. It was too much responsibility, he didn’t want it. He choked back a laugh, a strange kind of hysteria overcoming him.

“Chartreuse,” he said. “Orange. Cyan. Turquoise. Brown! Blue! Charcoal! Green! Yellow! Red! Vermilion!”

“Yellow accepted,” said the voice. “Altering parameters. All uniform repositories set to yellow.”

He was struck with a sudden horrible certainty: his dresser now containing nothing but yellow. By this time tomorrow, nobody would own a pink tunic. He had brought the experiment to its conclusion. He had damned them all. “No!” he shouted. “Pink! I want pink!” But his words met with no response. In sudden rage, he lifted the hammer high, about to bring it down on the obelisk, the object of his torment. As the hammer reached its apogee, however, he reconsidered. The controller was a dumb machine, and it was only doing what he had told it to.

And yellow was such a nice colour after all. He let the hammer fall back to his side. What was the problem? Everyone should be yellow. It was logical. Yellow made them stronger, and faster, and better.

He had to get home, back to his residence. He was just a worker, and the City would go on, and his next shift was in twelve hours, and he was happy in yellow.

Written in response to Flash Fiction Challenge: “Roll for your title” on TerribleMinds.

For those who might be interested, the human brain processes ideas and decisions in a similar way to the Controller – by generating possible options and systematically suppressing them until only one remains. See

A crack in the sky


There’s a crack in the sky tonight, and through it I can see the stars.

I’d like to run down the hill and tell Katje. We sometimes lay down side by side and watch the stars, and later leads on to other pleasurable pastimes. But it would be a waste of time tonight; by the time we returned, the crack would have been sealed. Besides, there’s no guarantee that Katje is at her grandmother’s tonight.

So I just lie here on my back and stare up at the sky, watching the tiny dots flittering around it, almost too small to see. These are the vehicles, so we are told, of the gods, repairing the damage our lack of faith has wrought. Our own foolishness would lead to our destruction, as the incessant war of the gods would flood our land with unbearable power when next the conflict approaches. But the gods are loving and merciful and they continually save us from the unbelief of ourselves.

The stars, we are told, are the homes of the gods. They shine with the light of millions of millions of our deities, separated from us only by the width of the gauzy curtain of the sky. Yet… In the Book the stars are spoken of differently.

Am I allowed to speak of the Book? Nobody has told me, but of course nobody but Kylar has authority to read it. Of all the twenty of us Scribes, trainees and masters, I alone have been chosen to bear the extra burden. Yet I have had no chance to speak to Kylar, save a brief word at the ceremony of Bestowal. Rumours abound that Kylar is ill and that I will be thrust into a position of leadership far more quickly than I would wish, but how can I be expected to lead the people if I have been told no more than they? As for the Book, it is filled with things I cannot understand and cannot reconcile with what I am told by the Elders.



Hmph. Thought I heard someone up here. What’s your name, boy? You’re a long way from home.


Kevan looked up sharply. Automatically his left forefinger tuned the microphone sensitivity up a few notches.

“My name is Kevan,” he said. “Scribe and Guide elect.”

The Messenger shrugged his cloak onto the ground and sat on it. He nodded, silver hair blowing in the gentle breeze. “Heard of you,” he said shortly. “What do you see?”

Kevan shifted uncomfortably. But it was a familiar enough question. The scribes in training were asked it innumerable times by the Elders, until it became second nature to describe everything to their Recorders. “I see a hillside dotted with trees, their crowns bending to let the wind pass where it might. I see the light from our homes some three miles distant, a flickering glow in the dimness of the plain. I see the sky being repaired and the wrath of the Gods being sealed out.”

The Messenger harrumphed. “You make a good scribe,” he said. “Very poetic.”

“Thank you,” said Kevan. He wasn’t at all certain he should be talking to the Messenger without the presence of an Elder. But as Guide elect he had to start dealing with things himself.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the vehicles at work, sealing the crack in the sky. Then Kevan cleared his throat softly. “The Elders tell us,” he said finally, “that you came from beyond the sky to bring us news of the Gods. Of how the war goes.”

Kevan waited to see if the Messenger would warn him off the topic. He didn’t. He continued to stare at the sky, but Kevan was certain he was listening.

“We hear also,” he went on, “that you may speak only to Kylar. But Kylar, it is said, is too ill to listen, much less respond.”

“Rumours,” said the Messenger dismissively.

“They are incorrect, then?” Kevan asked. The Messenger did not reply.

“Messengers have come to us every three centuries,” Kevan continued. “Each time during a period of great peril, grave danger to the People. Each time disaster has been averted only by immediate action by the Guide. So much is in our history.”

The Messenger said nothing. His body language bespoke some inner emotion, of anger or amusement. Kevan wished he knew which.

Kevan paused. He didn’t wish to be too direct. The Elders would hear the Recording and he was not beyond their censorious reach. But he had a responsibility, one which he had not asked for but which had devolved to him anyhow.

“The Elders are inflexible,” he said carefully. “They insist that while Kylar lives he retains immutable rights. Yet if he is incapable of Guiding the people…”

The Messenger turned his head and his eyes glowed in the darkness. “You are Guide elect,” he said.

Kevan nodded. “I am.”

“How much have you read of the Book?”

Kevan froze. He was not allowed to talk of the book to anyone but the Guide. And yet… the Guide was unable to respond to his questioning. And now the Messenger’s eyes were burning with sudden intensity as he stared directly at Kevan.

“Some,” he whispered eventually, dropping his eyes. He felt shamed. He felt that he was betraying his people. The Elders had told him that he had a responsibility, to know more than it was wise for people to know. Even the Elders did not know what it was that he was not allowed to speak of.

The Messenger seemed impatient. “Don’t go like that, young man,” he said. “The book comes to you from beyond the sky. As do I. From the Gods… such as they may be.”

Kevan suddenly didn’t want to hear. He’d pressed too hard and now was hearing too much. So this was what the Elders had meant. But they had also said that he was never to shirk his responsibility.

The Messenger, however, had turned uncommunicative again.

After a while Kevan spoke again. “The sky is almost sealed,” he said.

The Messenger hmmed noncommitally.

“Is our unbelief so great?” Kevan asked.

The Messenger stared at him, suddenly uncertain. “So great as what?”

“The shield of the sky,” said Kevan, “is broken by our unbelief. Yet these breaks are much more common now than ever before. Has our unbelief progressed to the point where we require a Messenger to remind us of the true faith? Is that why you are here?”

The Messenger turned away, stared at the trees below. “Tell me about the Book,” he said.

Kevan paused again before answering. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “It speaks of a multitude of worlds,” he said. “It says the stars are simple light sources, nothing more. It says that we are not the only People in the universe. All of these things are denied by the Elders, by our very faith. I alone question.” Kevan stared at the Messenger, eyes suddenly bleak. “It’s me, isn’t it? The unbelief that breaks the sky. It’s mine. And you have come to convince me of the folly of my ways.”

The Messenger leapt to his feet, clutched at his temples as if struck by pain he could not bear. Kevan shied away from the sudden violent movement. Had he gone too far? Had he in his ignorance doomed the People he was destined to Guide?

The Messenger stared at the sky, face distorted with sudden rage. “I will not!” he shouted. “I can no longer be a party to this!”

“You cannot fight the Gods,” Kevan said. It was one of the few parts of his faith of which he was sure.

The Messenger suddenly rounded on Kevan, causing the scribe to shy backwards further still. “What do you know of Gods?” he snarled. “The Gods are a committee of half-senile old men who should have learned their lessons by now.” His next remark was aimed as much to the sky as Kevan. “It’s all falling apart, and they can’t see it!”

Kevan was, for the first time in his life, at a loss for words. How could a Messenger suddenly spout blasphemy? It went against every grain of the faith. Yet what the Messenger was saying bore the ring of truth, incomprehensible as it was.

As suddenly as it had appeared the anger was gone, and the Messenger suddenly seemed like a tired old man himself, though he could hardly be fifty years of age.

The Messenger sat down on his cloak again. He stared straight ahead as he addressed Kevan.

“Scribe and Guide-elect, let me tell you a story,” he said. “The Gods, in their infinite wisdom, decided to build a society of peaceful farmers. They supplied… magical items to make life easier. They built the sky over this group of people to protect them from harm and to isolate them from the rest of the universe. They gave them a unified language, a societal system which would produce no ill effects. Their aim was to produce a utopian society, a world where everyone had all they needed, where evil could never flourish. A heaven of sorts, if you will.”

“Heaven?” asked Kevan, unsettled by the unfamiliar word. The Messenger ignored the interruption and continued his story.

“The Gods succeeded in their aim,” he said. “Their vision of a utopian culture was fulfilled. A culture with no evil, no wants, no sickness.”

“Our culture,” Kevan said softly, recognising the Canto of his own faith.

“Your culture,” agreed the Messenger. As he spoke his voice became harsher, more violent. “A culture with no struggling. No fighting. No change. No progress. And so you live with a part of you missing, something that’s been absent so long you can no longer tell the difference!”

Kevan jumped to his feet, turned away, tears springing to his eyes. “Is this why you have come? To torment me with things I cannot understand, that I dare not even contemplate?”

“It’s not your fault,” said the Messenger. “It’s far more my responsibility. I have allowed myself to go along with their plans, with their machinations. I allowed myself to be sent here, to renew your people’s faith, to check on your society’s health. While my people renew the shield that keeps you isolated from any influences which might encourage you to think!”

Kevan didn’t turn around. The Messenger was toying with him and all he wanted was to flee to the town for shelter. But he wouldn’t give the Messenger the satisfaction of seeing him run.

Before he had taken three steps the Messenger called out to him again. Kevan paused.

“Read the Book,” the Messenger said. “But read this also.”

Reluctantly Kevan turned, and felt another pillar of his world crumble. The Messenger was holding out… it was another Book. A similar leather cover protected the pages within, of a different shade to the leather he knew so well. There were other Books.

Kevan stepped forward slowly and took hold of the gift. But the Messenger didn’t release it immediately. Instead he stared into Kevan’s eyes as they held the ends of the book. A strange mental tug of war, and Kevan knew he was hopelessly outclassed.

“You are a free person,” said the Messenger. “A book… is just words. Sometimes the words reflect a vision, but at best they can only be a guide. What I give you now has no higher meaning than to open your mind to other possibilities.”

Kevan stared at him, again uncomprehending. The Messenger ignored the appeal in his eyes and continued talking.

“Tell the Elders that I have left to return to the Gods,” he said. “The sky is intact once more.” He let go of the new Book. Kevan felt as if he’d been leaning backwards on a rope and the weight had suddenly been taken off the other end. He almost staggered with the sudden relief.

The Messenger stood and shrugged himself back into his cloak, removing a sealed scroll as he did so. He held up the scroll. “This formally ratifies you as Guide for the People,” he said. “No other Guide has been so blest. I suggest you don’t waste this honour. You have the support of the Gods. Don’t be afraid…” the Messenger turned as he spoke, so his sentence was almost lost in the wind. “…to make changes.”

And with no further word he walked away down the hill, becoming lost to sight within the trees only moments later.

Kevan stared at the scroll at his feet, sealed with a red ribbon sash. He was tempted to bury it, give up the responsibility of Guiding the people, walk away into the forest and forget everything he knew. But he dared not.

Instead he looked at the Book in his hand. It felt strange to hold a Book outside the protected environs of the Learning Rooms. The lettering on the front cover made little sense to him. Brave New World. He considered just leaving it here. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to understand it; perhaps his faith need not be challenged by it. Perhaps he could go on with life as if this night had never happened. Overhead, the stars were dull patches of light on the unbroken sky. All was well with the world.

From the direction of the village came a single forlorn horn note. Sounding for the death of Guide Kylar. It was soon joined with a chorus of other horns, the sombre music sounding strangely thin from this distance and in this wind.

Holding the scroll in one hand and the new Book in the other Kevan began to make his way down the hill.

The Last Year

That July morning, it snowed. Naturally, we took the kids outside. At twelve and nine, they’d never seen snow. It was almost as magical for Alice and myself as it was for them; we’d begun to think we’d never see snow again, and snow in New York during high summer was about as likely as a cactus in Antarctica.

But of course, that was the old world. All the rules had changed.

For me, it was wonderful to watch Alexa and Josh delighting in the slush, throwing snowballs, and building snowmen (the snow was too watery to hold its shape, and the best effort they could manage was Alexa’s mound of dirty snow with a stick poking haphazardly out the top.) But Alice, in my peripheral vision, was a sour note. Her eyes were sad as she watched. Without turning to me, she said softly, “You can’t fix it, can you?”

With that, the joy was gone. “No,” I said. “I don’t think we can.”


My office in the Climate Engineering building of the Directorate was a knot of calm and silence amidst constant noise and motion. Around me people were packing up their desks, cardboard boxes proliferating like tribbles; the whole building must have deprived Central Park of a good half of its accommodation. The activity was constant and remorseless, but subdued; I didn’t see a single smile.

Craig caught me on the way in. “Did you hear? They’ve withdrawn funding. They’re shutting us down.”

“I know,” I said. It figured; we’d tried everything we could and few that we couldn’t and we hadn’t made a lick of difference. It didn’t help that there was a strong impression in Congress that we were directly responsible for the death of the climate. Hardly surprising. They weren’t wrong. The media had taken to calling it “Howell’s Ice Age” and even Howell’s suicide hadn’t done much to clear his tarnished image.

Jason Howell – JH as he had liked to be called – had been my boss, the head of the Climate Engineering department. His departure from the scene had left me as the most senior official and secured my immediate future; I was about the only employee not laid off, and that was only so they could ensure I would be around to face the inevitable Congress inquiry. If that ever happened. Effective head of the Climate Engineering department, without a department to manage.

“OK,” said Craig, “but do you know where the money’s going now? They’re fast-tracking Project Noah.”

My first reaction to this was to think that it was crazy, like aliens-in-Wyoming crazy, but these were not times for sanity. I nodded. “I should be surprised,” I said. “I haven’t seen that announced.”

“No announcements,” said Craig. “They’re keeping it on the quiet. I heard through someone my wife knows.” That also made sense. Project Noah, at its very most ambitious, wouldn’t be able to save more than a few thousand people. But if Craig knew about it, then you could bet that half of America would know by next week. That kind of news doesn’t stay secret for long.


Half of America did not know by the next week. Craig and his wife went on a long holiday to the Caribbean without so much as tweeting it first. Some other souls, more cynical than mine, might have suspected that their impromptu trip went a bit further than Jamaica, but that summer it seemed that a lot of people decided to head south. The conspiratorial underbelly of the internet caught on to the disappearances but in all the buzz the news of project Noah seemed to sink without a trace.

Jamaica was one of the few places left where there was still any kind of sun; an anaemic, watered-down sun, but enough to give a little warmth. The tourism authorities were having a field day: “The last resort of the sun”, “Summer’s last refuge”, that kind of thing. It says something either funny or sad about human nature that even whilst the world was ending, people were still trying to make money. Whilst the memory of warmth was a nice thought, I could think of better ways to spend my time than to try to squeeze into the tropical islands along with half of the rest of the human race. Nine billion people, all standing on a piece of ground slightly smaller than Connecticut.

Except that it wasn’t nine billion people by then. By mid-August, just about everything north of sixty degrees was frozen. Those who could escape went south, and escape they did, in their millions; but for many, they never had a chance. Residents of civilized countries like Sweden and Greenland, and half of Canada, holders of first-world privilege who never expected to be the ones to suffer, had either starved or frozen in their icy homes. Not that the rest of the world was faring much better. It was no more than eight months since Project Glass had been prematurely aborted, and a single lost season of growth was hardly going to plunge the globe into starvation, but two years, three, and we would be in real trouble. Hence the rationing, hence the death-spiral of food prices, hence the food riots.


In October I was finally called before an emergency sitting of Congress. I didn’t know exactly what to expect from it; I’d never sat at the rarefied heights before. JH had never been a scientist or an engineer, but he had been a born administrator, and he had always been the figurehead of the Directorate. I’d never even set foot in Washington; I once promised to take the kids to the White House but work got in the way and we never went. By October air travel was pretty much impossible, so I had to take the fast train down; what had previously been a three-hour trip took closer to six hours, with stops every few miles to clear snow and ice from the tracks.

Despite the almost-freezing conditions street-side, the Capitol building was kept warm, doubtless at huge cost; in view of the situation I guess peak oil had ceased being a consideration. I was nervous as hell while I stood outside the House Chamber waiting my turn. The diplomat guide-cum-guard who’d been assigned to me was unsympathetic.

We were met in the antechamber by Willard Harvey; secretary of the Department of Primary Industry, I’d met him several times. He and JH had gotten along famously; to me, he was like a kindly uncle. Now he greeted me warmly enough, then pulled me close. “They’ve pretty much agreed to pin everything on JH,” he said. “You’ll get through this OK, if you play it right.”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“Think about your kids,” he said. “The human race will survive this. We always do. In the future, people will remember project Glass. You don’t want your kids to grow with that kind of shame to their name, do you?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t sure my kids were going to get the chance to grow up, but I certainly didn’t want that.

Then, sotto voce, he gave me the best advice I’ve ever received. “I suggest you tell them exactly what they expect to hear.”

So I did.


I didn’t sleep well the next few nights after that. It may have been JH’s signature on the orders, but it was my department that came up with the details and the implementation of Glass; it was on my say-so that we’d gone ahead. Even then I’d known there was only a fifty-fifty chance of complete success; we just miscalculated the direction of the error. I spent much of the next few nights sitting in the kids’ bedrooms watching them sleep, unable to exorcise the demons of guilt in my gut.

But a conscience is a resilient thing and life went on. Despite the conclusion of the emergency sitting, nobody got around to closing down the Climate Engineering department, so I kept getting paid. I’d stopped actually going to the office weeks ago, but nobody cared.

In November, they decommissioned two thirds of the army. For a couple of days it was the lead story on the news bulletins still operating, flickering long-range video of thousands of rifles being dumped into pits and topped with concrete. At the time, I didn’t see why they bothered. It wasn’t like the government needed to save money for the future.

In December the reasons became clear.


The human race was busy indeed during those last few months. China put a colony on Mars. Rumour had it that Japan had gotten there six weeks earlier; scuttlebutt insisted that there was a shooting war going on up there. I wasn’t sure if I believed it then, and I still don’t. The middle east was at war, exploding into a furious excoriation of violence late in the year, as if a dozen countries were desperate to get out their long-held enmities before the inevitable rapture.

It was in December that the government announced what some had already suspected. Congress had fast-tracked a half dozen different projects, spending like there was no tomorrow. Project Noah was one of those announced, but it was barely a footnote. Project Methuselah sounded hare-brained to me; I no more believed that people could be safely preserved in cryogenics than I believed that Walt Disney and Elvis Presley were alive and well and living in Michigan. Project Compound was much more likely; gigantic plastic-and-metal habitat domes built out in the middle of nowhere, stuffed with hydroponics and artificial lighting, powered by great nuclear furnaces to be built at long distances. Due for completion by the middle of the next year, at least it seemed to me to have potential. And yes, the US was going to put colonies on Mars and the moon as well.

Participation in these projects would be by a combination of selection on merit, and a lottery to end all lotteries. With the army reduced in advance to those who had already been selected for participation, the US went into the strictest martial law possible.

By then Alice’s parents were living with us. They’d moved south from Boston in mid-November, succumbing to punishing power and food costs. My own parents were still in Portland, and I’d lost touch with them in September. I’d heard that there had been a lot of brown-outs over there, with people freezing overnight when their heating failed. I had to assume that they were gone.

I’d never liked them much anyway.


In February two square young men turned up on our doorstep and escorted me to the government car awaiting me at the curb. Apparently they’d gone via my office and were none too pleased to find it cold and abandoned. “I’ll be home soon,” I told Alice and the kids, hoping to hell that I wasn’t going to be proved a liar.

I was eventually ushered into a small office in one of the government’s innumerable buildings downtown. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but when I saw Willard Harvey sitting behind the desk, that was certainly not it.

“We’re offering you a place in Project Noah,” he told me without preamble. “How much do you know about Noah?”

“They’re calling it a generation ship,” I replied. “Designed to be in flight for hundreds of years between star systems. I heard it’s going to go to Alpha Centauri for exploration and possible colonisation.”

“Potentially, thousands of years,” said Harvey. “Hundreds of years is best-case scenario. There’s really no guarantees at all, least of all that Alpha Centauri will be suitable.”

“The crew will live and die in space,” I continued. “Have babies, keep the ship going.” I was no evolutionary geneticist, but I knew a little about populations. “You’ll need thousands of people.”

“Close to ten thousand,” Harvey agreed. “We’d like you to be one of them.”

“Why me?”

Harvey tapped the desk in front of him, a thick bound folder I hadn’t even noticed. “We’ve been doing our homework,” he said. “There’s a lot of considerations. Health. Expertise. We’ll be needing atmospheric engineers and climatologists when the ship arrives at any destination. You’re one of the best, and more importantly, you’ve written books and you’ve run lectures. It’s not just your knowledge we’re after, it’s your ability to teach.”

“You must have thousands of climatologists to choose from,” I said.

“True,” he replied, “but since Congress determined that JH was solely responsible for the mess of Glass, there’s no reason it shouldn’t be you. There’s more to it, of course. Your genetic make-up is disparate enough to be a positive contributor to the overall gene pool we’re trying to preserve.”

“My genes?” I asked, surprised.

He shrugged. “Every government employee has a blood sample taken as part of their standard medical. What are you, one quarter Chinese?”

“My grandparents were Chinese,” I admitted.

“We can’t promise you a comfortable life, nor a safe one. But you’ll be doing something worthwhile, and you’ll be valued.”

“I’ll need time to think about it,” I said. That was an understatement.

“You have twenty-four hours,” Harvey said. “But I have one more thing for you to consider. This offer’s for you personally. And I do mean you: just you. Not your family. Not your friends. Probably not anybody you’ve ever met.” He took off his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “Hell of a thing to ask, I know, but you’re first on our list in our models.”


I didn’t go straight home. I had a lot to think about, so I turned my collar up against the cold and I walked the city streets, kicking my way through snow. In the end I made my way home, and stood across the street, just gazing at the glowing windows and the vague shapes that moved behind the drapes. And I made my decision.


It was the sixth of March when I left home for the last time. I lied to Alice, telling her I was heading for an unspecified appointment in the office. I’d barely been back there for months and I’m not sure she entirely believed me, but she didn’t say anything. Perhaps she had already suspected something; I’d done my best to act normally for the past few weeks, but it’s hard to keep secrets from someone you live with.

That morning I got up early and spent some time standing in the doorway to the kids’ room. Saying goodbye. But I couldn’t linger.

I had done my best for them. I’d negotiated a place for them all – Alice, Alexa, Josh, even Alice’s parents – in one of the biodomes. They would be OK. They’d probably have a more comfortable life than I was committed to.

The Ark had been built in orbit, and the crew were being shuttled up to it. Ten thousand people, on a spaceship half the size of Manhattan. The scope of it beggared belief. Powered by a combination of nuclear engines, ram scoops and solar sails, the engineers had pulled out all the stops. Frankly, most of that is well outside my area of expertise.

Ten thousand people. Drawn from all walks of life, as varied a racial background as could be arranged, and bonded together with a single purpose. Destined to live and die in the cold expanses of space, with only the most tenuous hope of survival, our only immediate priorities being to record and pass on our knowledge – and to breed.

Most of the massive craft was built without windows, and I had no chance to see the Earth as we left it behind. I wondered what Alice would think if she could see me.


Nature doesn’t approve of stillness. Humanity has survived where other species became extinct, time after time, eon after eon, because we kept moving. We move to keep ahead of the climate, of the predators, of the volcano and the tides and anger of a vengeful planet.

I’m sure the biodomes will survive for a good many years. I hope – I pray – that Alexa and Josh have long lives, productive lives, and that they’re as happy as might be reasonably expected. But nothing that mankind builds can last thousands of years. The sulfide aerosols we put into the atmosphere, that turned Earth into the inside of a silver-foil balloon, were designed to be non-reactive. It might be hundreds of years before the sky started to clear once more. I hope that the biodomes will still be standing by then, that my descendants will one day be able to emerge onto a planet as it wakes from the long winter. But I don’t think they will.

The main reason that I left them behind – my wife, my children, my life – the straightforward justification is simple.

We must never make these mistakes again.

Written in response to a writing prompt from Today’s Author
The prompt was as follows:

That July morning, it snowed.

This one took a while!

The Beggar and the Owl

“This is all your own fault, you know,” said the owl.

The beggar had been steadfastly ignoring his avian goad for the last hour, but this was too much to be borne. “I see,” he said. “So I whipped up that magic gateway myself, did I? Stripped myself of my powers? Pray tell, where do you think I might have hidden them? I’d rather like them back.”

The breeze had turned cold during the morning, and it cut cruelly through the threadbare cast-offs that this ridiculous mortal body was wrapped in. He had asked several passers-by for their jackets, rather politely he had thought, but nobody was playing. It had been a good five hundred years since he had last been fully mortal, and he wasn’t used to discomfort.

“What are you hoping to achieve?” The owl swooped by him, so close he could almost have reached out and grabbed it, but he wasn’t falling for that lure again. It alighted in the branches of one of the elms that lined the river, its brilliant white feathers standing out stark against the russet autumn leaves. “Just apologise to her. You know it’s what she wants. She’s not about to relent just because you’re too proud to talk to her.”

“Apologise?” The de-powered God snorted in derision. “I’m the King of Olympus. I don’t have to ask bloody Hera for permission and I’m not about to apologise for having a bit of fun!”

The owl ruffled its feathers, giving a remarkably accurate facsimile of a shrug. “You may be the King of Olympus but you’re also a homeless beggar and it will be night soon. I don’t want to see you suffer.” When the old beggar tightened his lips and kept walking, the owl changed tack. “She gets upset when you have your ‘bits of fun’. There’s been a dozen this year alone. What was the latest – that Spaniard?”

“Alberto,” said the beggar. “He was a sculptor. I showed him a few things about the male form.” He smiled at the recollection.

“I’ll say you did,” said the owl. “If you’re that tired of Hera, why not just leave her? If you must dally with mortals, why do you have to keep rubbing her nose in it? You might even be free to marry again.”

“Never,” snorted the beggar. “One three-hundred year wedding night is enough for one existence. No, I’m not looking for another wife.” His steps paused for a second. “Hera doesn’t get free of me that easily.”

“You still love her,” mused the owl.

“Nonsense! It’s just… I like being comfortable.”

Their perambulations were taking them past a street mime. The owl left his side for a moment, perching high above the sparse cluster of the audience on a street lamp. A barely visible wave of force that nobody human could see, and suddenly the mime was accompanied by a voice, clearly enunciating in the cold air. “If I climb this ladder, I can see over the wall. Now what…”

The mime froze, hands raised on an invisible sill, and his head whipped around as he tried to find the joker. The audience looked on bemused, and the mime, disconcerted, went on with the act.

“…what do I see? Ah, there’s a door on the other…”

The mime broke character, glaring furiously, but the owl had departed, swooping back to the beggar’s side.

“That was petty,” he said. “You’ve grown more malicious as you’ve gotten older.”

“I hate mimes,” said the owl. “Where were we? No, more to the point: where are we? Where are you going?”

“I’m still looking for that girl,” the beggar growled. “I might as well have something to show for all this. She can’t escape me – even mortal, I’ll sense her.”

“That girl?” The owl’s voice lilted with amusement. “You mean this girl?”

Suddenly, for a moment, the owl was gone, in her place a young brunette in a stereotypical maid’s outfit – garters and all. “Does anybody really dress like that, these days?” the girl asked merrily. Then she was gone, and the owl sat on a post, blinking inscrutably at him.

“You! That was you!” the beggar roared, stating the bleeding obvious. One wrinkled hand lashed out, crooked finger pointing in the owl’s direction. If he’d been in full possession of his faculties, the owl would no doubt have felt a right smiting, but Hera had stolen his thunder and he was left huffing impotently. “When this is over, you’ll pay for this,” he said, voice low with fury.

The owl shrugged again. “Don’t blame me, this wasn’t my idea. I wasn’t the crone and I didn’t set up that gateway. I just did Hera a bit of a favour; you’re the one that followed me.”

“Well, can you blame me? That little dress was irresistible.”

Their random peregrinations had brought them somewhere recognisable. The beggar continued without pause to the gateway marked Parc Zoologique de Paris. Here the peculiar invisibility that afflicts the indigent worked to his advantage; nobody sought to bar him entry or to ask him to pay, perhaps feeling that the former would be cruel and the latter futile. The owl swooped through the turnstile after him, likewise unimpeded.

“Look at you,” said the owl. “Are you looking to take shelter from the night in the monkey house? Have you truly sunk so low?”

“No,” said the beggar, pausing by an artificial lagoon. “I’ve come to pay my respects to a colleague.”

“A colleague?” asked the owl, the slightest tinge of unease in her voice, but then the water exploded, a geyser of fury, and engulfed her. Then the water coalesced into the form of a giant crocodile – and the owl found herself trapped inside a cage made of ivory.

“Athena, I’d like you to meet Suchos,” said the beggar. “I’ve had him trapped here for the last four hundred years since he transgressed one of the Precepts. He’s just awaiting my command and his power will be restored to him.”

“Father? Don’t do this,” said the owl, suddenly frightened. “You know Hera, I couldn’t very well say no to her.”

“I’ll grant you that,” said the beggar. “But now I’ll have my powers back. Suchos, in two minutes from now, your debt is paid; you will be free. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The crocodile didn’t answer, but that might have been because he had his mouth full and he was trying to be polite.

“My dear, do you remember how you came into being? They had to chisel you out of my head,” said the beggar. “In two minutes, it looks like they’ll have to chisel you out of Suchos’ stomach.”

The owl beat her wings against the toothy barrier but Suchos was still a god, and impervious to her talons. When a crocodile grins, it can’t be denied, and Suchos was obviously having a fine time.

“Very well!” the owl screeched. “There! You’re restored! Tell him to let me go!”

“Let her go,” said Zeus, and Suchos reluctantly opened his cavernous jaws. The owl flew out and immediately out of his reach, perching high atop the enclosure fence.

“That was cruel,” said the owl.

“Effective, though,” said Zeus, shedding the beggar’s form effortlessly, suddenly resplendent in golden armour. “Suchos, your debt is paid. Be a good lad. Next time I’ll have to trap you somewhere truly unpleasant; maybe a croc farm in Malaysia.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” said the crocodile as it disappeared. A second later there was a loud pop as the space where Zeus had stood filled with air; the few remaining visitors to the park glanced around them in confusion, but of beggar, owl or crocodile there was no sign.

The halls of Olympus were hushed as Zeus strode through them. The rest of the pantheon must have been watching, but none had deigned to help him. He couldn’t entirely blame them, he supposed; Hera’s wrath was a fearsome thing when roused. But that didn’t mollify him; somebody would have to pay for this outrage.

The throne hall’s golden doors split asunder under the force of his rage as he entered, but then he froze on the verge, startled. Before him stood a young brunette girl, dressed in a french maid’s outfit. The garters were a lovely touch.

“I’ve been looking forward to you getting home,” said Hera slyly.

Slowly, Zeus smiled.

Written in response to 13th Floor Paradigm Mythology Workshop
I received a prompt as follows:

Zeus is lost in Paris.The only other being that pays attention to him is an annoying talking owl that keeps following him.

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