Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  But my head was gone, destroyed in a small explosion.

  It had worked after all.

  Osiris lay next to the table, his own torso a mangled mess. What I assumed was blood covered the area, but it was a dark green, similar to his skin color. In one hand was the medallion, a little worse for wear after the explosion.

  I’d done it. I’d killed him. The tiny explosives I’d implanted into my teeth and jaw had worked.

  I was finally free to die.

  But…

  With hundreds of copies of myself to spare and no master ruling my life…did I even want to die anymore?

  Life is composed of pivotal moments. I’d experienced many of them over the centuries—but none of them had been as significant as this one. With Osiris gone, the success or failure of this moment was up to me. I could fail. I could have monumental success. Either way, it was all up to me.

  Entirely up to me.

  Jeremy Szal

  http://jeremyszal.com/

  Daega's Test(Short story)

  by Jeremy Szal

  Originally published by Nature

  Darak wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow and stole another glance at the ageing clock on the wall. Three hours to go. It might have been bearable if the air conditioner hadn't broken down again. The thing should have been decommissioned years ago.

  Outside the window, Kuala Lumpur blazed ahead at full throttle. Rickety food carts piled with pyramids of ngaw, papaya and durian rushed past, gravel crunching under their wheels. The smell of rich spices and incense from the market stalls fought a losing battle with the billowing black exhaust fumes from the motorcycles and battered auto-rickshaws that weaved through the crowds. Darak coughed, his chest heaving. It was a choice between shutting the window and turning the room into a sauna or choking on the smoke. Not that more pollution would make that much difference.

  He stabbed the button on his desk, ushering the next daega inside. It was a woman this time, hair dyed bubblegum blue. The cams tracked her every move as she sat down on the plastic stool, hands folded. This would be a tricky one. Normally, he could guess immediately. This time there were no clues. He had no idea. Not good.

  But there was no time to waste. The more of these AIs he cleared the better. His hands hovered over the ash-stained keyboard. “Name?”

  “Alisha Kemji,” she said, her voice level and smooth.

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-five.” She didn't look it. She looked a lot younger. But no matter, that was her answer.

  He rattled through the rest of the standard questions, punching her answers into the system. Where are you from? Which university did you attend? What did you study? The Turing program monitored her vocal frequency and her movements. Nothing escaped it. Darak sneaked another glance at her. Her dark eyes stared back at him. She was unusually calm. Even the heat didn't seem to bother her. Everyone else he'd seen today had been close to chewing their fingernails off. Darak didn't blame them. This was the final test. Except this was one test that you didn't want to pass. Level 4 was bad enough, and would definitely get the CORPS on you. But Level 5…

  Personally, he'd had only a few daega who'd passed the test, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for those Level 5 machines. It wasn't their choice. Wasn't their fault that the scientists in the labs had been too damn good at their jobs.

  The Turing program finished its analysis. Alisha was watching him, a faint smile playing on her face. Darak narrowed his eyes. What was that look about?

  The program beeped and he looked at the monitor, his heart starting to throb.

  She was a Level 5.

  Damn. Her eyes locked with his and he realized that she knew exactly what was on the screen. She'd known even before she'd walked in.

  Darak flicked the recorder off. “How long have you known?” he asked.

  “Long enough,” she replied, scraping blue hair away from her face.

  Darak nodded and leaned back, weary. “You know what this means, don't you?” Not like he had to ask. Every daega knew what would happen if the Turing program revealed them to be an advanced AI. They walked in here willingly to prove they were no threat, get their Green Card permit and so join the rest of society. They knew the risks.

  Alisha, the daega in front of him, nodded, unfazed and smiling.

  He reached under the desk for a small yellow button. Two men would come in and escort her to the scrap factory like the thousands before her. She'd never be seen again. “I'm sorry.”

  “You might not want to do that,” she said.

  Darak paused, his finger hovering over the button. One little push…“Why ever not?”

  “It's a long trip to the melting pot. We've got plenty of time to talk.” Her eyelids flickered. “I could always ask them to look your way. Ask them why you're so good at your job. Why you've never made a mistake. Why you can spot a daega a mile away.”

  Darak felt a trickle of sweat ride down his back. Who was this person? “How did you—”

  She shrugged. “Word gets around. A few ringgits in the right hand can get you far in these parts.” Those lovely eyes of hers—eyes that weren't real—flickered again. “They don't even know you're a daega, do they?”

  For once, Darak had nothing to say.

  Alisha cocked her head at him. “You know, we could reach an agreement.”

  Ah. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been threatened or blackmailed on this job. But it was definitely the first time he was seriously considering it. He couldn't risk anyone taking a closer look at him. She held him in the palm of her hands. He could almost feel the walls closing in…

  He spat a curse and turned to the monitor, punching in the override key. He took control of the system and lowered her level to a sturdy 3. Her smile was sickly honey as the machine pumped out her permit card, the one that would allow her employment and full access to the same assets as other daega in the city.

  He handed her the card, looking her straight in the eye. “If you're smart, you'll get out of the city. It's not safe for you here.”

  That raised an eyebrow. “Not safe for me?” she walked towards the exit, heels clicking on the polished floor. “You're the one working here. Do you think you'll fool them forever?”

  Then she was gone.

  Last Age of Kings(Short story)

  by Jeremy Szal

  Originally published by Fantasy Scroll Magazine

  Fog approached the town.

  Roshar knew it would happen, but it was still unsettling to see it touch the outskirts of his home. The day before you could still see the fields. And the week before that Lithgard was still visible if you looked hard enough. But it had all been swallowed up by the spectral fog, scrubbing them out of existence

  And soon it would be Northam’s turn.

  He was almost glad that Robin never had to see this.

  Roshar slipped his mudcaked boots on, the door groaning as he opened it and bundled his furs around him, fighting to keep warmth in body.

  He started down the corkscrew staircase, shoes echoing in the tower. Felix was sitting on a bench with his broadsword leaning against the table. His ringmail rattled as he lifted a rusted tankard to his cracked lips, drinking greedily.

  Roshar raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

  “Aye, but who cares? It doesn’t matter anymore. Might as well get a couple o’ drinks in while you can, eh? I heard the ale they serve in hell is piss poor.” He chuckled as Roshar walked passed him, shaking his head. There was only one hell that he knew of. The one that we’re living in now.

  *

  Roshar pushed open the tower’s steel door. Wet gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way to Gaeon’s hut. He didn’t care for the gods from the south that he worshipped, but the old mage had saved his life on more occasions than he cared to admit.

  He stepped around an empty shell of a burnt house and the splintered timber panelings of the market stalls, flakes of rust and ash floating down. He hamme
red on Gaeon’s door. Carved into the wood was the face of a solemn god, staring back at him. The old man thought they gave him protection, warded off enemies.

  Gods don’t protect anyone now. Not anymore.

  The door edged open, a draft of musty air floating his way. “Ah. You’re early.” The olive-skinned mage was squatting on the floor, cocooned in woolen blankets, tending to the dying embers of his hearth.

  “Couldn’t sleep.” Roshar closed the door and sat down next to Gaeon, lifting his fleece so Gaeon could examine the fading scars on his chest.

  Gaeon rubbed his bald head. “Count yourself lucky you’re still breathing, young man. The poison alone would have killed most men.”

  He didn’t doubt it. They hadn’t even reached the mist when a volley of arrows spat out, thudding into flesh and bone. The arrows had slaughtered half his squad and injured others. He had managed to crawl close enough to the village for some scouts to find him. The ague had gripped him for a fortnight, sweating and vomiting and thrashing and twisting in Gaeon’s hut while the old mage nursed him back to life. Robin, his newlywed wife had come to visit him every day. Although he’d barely been able to register her presence, he knew she was there beside him. She had kept him strong. He clawed his way back through hell for her. And when he woke up, the old mage told him that the plague had taken her just minutes before.

  He sometimes wished that Gaeon hadn’t bothered.

  “Did you learn anything from the arrows?” Roshar asked, lowering his shirt.

  “You could say so.” Gaeon waddled over to the bench and picked up the broken shafts with a strip of boiled leather for protection. He handed them to Roshar. “Careful. There’s still poison within them.”

  The metal was wreathed in what looked like twisted black thorns, but on closer inspection seemed to be some sort of runic inscriptions. The arrowheads themselves were slick and oily, tiny barbs jutting out from the head, tips swathed in sickly green syrup.

  “Those barbs hooked themselves deep in your flesh,” Gaeon murmured. “They too were coated with poison. Ghastly stuff.”

  “And the runes?” Just being near the thing made him feel ill, like something was niggling in his guts. He forked them back to the old mage and felt the sensation fade from his body. “Can you read them?”

  “I’ve poured over every map and scroll I have and found nothing.” He whisked the arrows away again. “Best it stays that way.”

  They sat there for a long time, soaking up whatever heat the miserable fire was prepared to give them. Roshar wasn’t even sure how the old man managed to find dry wood. Everything in the town was drenched to the bone by the freezing weather. None of this was natural. Wasn’t hell at least supposed to be warm?

  It was a while before either of them moved. Roshar shifted slightly as he turned to Gaeon. “I’m going back. I’ve got to try.”

  The mage blinked. “I didn’t spend weeks raising you from the dead for you to kill yourself again.”

  “I have to do something,” Roshar hissed. “Anything is better than this.” It had been building up for a while but Robin slipping away had been the final blow. Whoever, or whatever had destroyed his world, he wanted to spit them in the eye before he died.

  “Hundreds of men walked into that mist,” Gaeon said, poking the fire with a blackened poker like he was dueling with it. “Some of them tough as iron. Others held weapons older than themselves. And they all died the same.” He cursed as the fire started to fade. “What makes you any different, eh?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve got to try.”

  Gaeon murmured something and the door swung open, icy wind sweeping into the hut and finding the holes in his clothes. The embers shriveled back in dismay. It seemed that the meeting was over. Roshar stood up, aching bones clicking with protest.

  “You’re going to die there,” mumbled Gaeon. “You won’t be coming back.”

  “I know.”

  *

  Roshar stood on the edge of the field, watching the mist through the slits in his helm. Bodies were piled around him, some old, some new, rotting and letting off a odor that churned his stomach. Others were on fire, emitting a sickeningly appetizing scent. They had tried getting rid of the bodies that way at first. But now the corpses outnumbered the living by the hundreds, so no one bothered.

  Ravens crackled and hissed as he moved through them, flapping back to the gables of the church, munching on flesh and observing him with inky eyes.

  Gods, it stank. He moved closer to the mist’s edge, longsword gripped firmly in hand. His father had given it to him on his eighteenth winter. He’d never planned to it use it. But ever since the blacksmith hung himself in the early days, weapons were in short demand.

  The ravens fluttered, mocking him with their caws. He glanced at them, and out of the corner of his eye spotted something unusual shifting in the mists. There.

  A fury of arrows spat out, zipping towards him. He rolled to the side, arrows punching into corpses. He picked himself up, the mud trying to hold him down as another volley came his way. He charged ahead, slashing out with his sword at the mist. He heard a wet crunch, blood running down the shaft as a freshly made corpse toppled forward and splashed into the mud, flatbow in hand. Someone was yelling, ringing a bell. Roshar didn’t wait. He sprinted forward, charging into the ethereal mist.

  He tottered into a small sentry tower, shocked faces staring at him. Zwang. A bolt hissed past his cheek and thudded into parapet next to him. It should have broken off, but the arrow buried itself in the rock, hissing. A corrosive stench wafted over to him. Acid. The shooter was reading his crossbow, loading up the crank. Roshar ducked under the archway and sprinted up the moss-slathed stairs, sweat streaking down his chest.

  The shooter gaped in surprise when he reached the top, desperately fumbling with his weapon. Roshar lunged with the sword, burying it in the sentry’s heart with a squelch. Blood sprayed in his eyes, half blinding him.

  Hiss. Two bolts spat out and hammered into the stonework, burning through the brick. There was the rattling of chainmail circling the stairs, pants and a torrent of curses. Roshar darted across the slippery stones and launched a kick just as the other two sentries rounded up, knocking them down in a stack. He twisted the sword and plunged downwards, spiking through the two bodies.

  He found himself there what felt like hours later, down on one knee, gloved hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword and sweat dripping down his face. He dragged in a shuddering breath, his lungs bleached of air. He yanked out the weapon, flicking away strings of blood. The bodies lay sprawled on the uneven flagstones, crimson dribbling down the uneven steps in a rhythmic pat, pat, pat. They must have been the ones firing the arrows out from the mist. He lifted their helms, decaying faces staring back at him, their eyes hollow. They weren’t people anymore. Just lumps of meat. Lumps of meat he’d killed.

  Something was strange here. The sky was covered with a layer of dense fog, only letting the faintest shavings of light to flit through. The way he came was still shrouded in the mist, as if it was thickening near a certain point and forming a barrier. It moved as he watched it. Closer and closer, it curled forward, slowly but surely, eating up the world.

  *

  Approaching the town, it took a few minutes to recognize Lithgard. The battlements were empty; the once finely kept entrance now caked in sopping mud and dripping with filth. The trees that once bore ripe fruit had dozens of bodies hanging from the twisted branches with thick ropes, swinging in the icy wind. He picked his way down the rolling steppe, sodden grass clinging to his legs.

  The town was nightmare made real. Bodies spilled from crude huts, limbs tangled and contorted like ruined dolls. Old houses had caved in, blood-spattered walls turned to splinters, wooden beams jutting at odd angles like broken fingers. There was a fire somewhere, charred wood billowing embers. Blood ran in little rivets, seeping into the mud. Stones had been crushed, weeds and bramble climbing over the mess in an attempt to hide the chaos.
Stray dogs scampered around, flea bitten and mangy.

  And of course, the ravens had shown up to enjoy their feast. There were probably more of them living than humans now. As he got closer to the tree, Roshar noticed that one of the bodies was much smaller than the others.

  It was a child.

  For a moment Roshar saw his own son’s face there, ginger-haired like his mother, grinning in the sun. But it was snatched away, back to the little pale corpse. Roshar felt tiny ice shards pick at his heart, memories holding him back. He shrugged them off and kept moving, feet sinking into the mud.

  There was someone kneeling down by the tree, head bowed. Roshar’s hand found the hilt of his sword, lifting it out off the scabbard by a few centimeters.

  The figure didn’t move. He walked over, curious and cautious. It was a woman; hands clasped together, eyes turned up at the tree. Roshar reached out and shook her by the shoulders. She didn’t even flinch.

  “She’s hasn’t moved for days.” Roshar’s heart lurched and he drew his sword, spinning around. “She’s not going to move now.”

  Roshar retreated, searching for the source of the voice. A bored sigh. “Up here.” Roshar craned his neck upwards. On the second story of a house sat a man, his once-white clothes tattered and soaked in muck. The furs of an arctic fox were draped around his shoulders. The whole front of the house had been ripped away, the bones picked clean. The man grumbled again, taking a swig of something foul from a bottle. He caught Roshar looking. “You want some?”

  “Won’t say no.” Roshar just managed to catch the flask. He took a long drink, sour wine burning down his throat and warming his stomach. The man hopped down and retrieved his bottle.

  “Glad to see some help came along.” He swept his hand around at the town. “Might want to work on the timing.”

  “What’s she doing?” Roshar asked, pointing at the woman kneeling by the tree, lips quivering.

  “Praying.” Another swig. “She thinks that if she remains locked in prayer with the gods, they’ll bring her son back.” A bitter laugh. “There ain’t no gods here. Just me. And the ravens, o’ course.”