The Stone Sky

by N. K. Jemisin

  Except. I did have something to lose. In those eternal instants, I thought of Kelenli, and her child.

  Thus it was that my will took precedence within the network. If you have any doubt, I’ll say it plainly now: I am the one who chose the way the world ended.

  I am the one who took control of the Plutonic Engine. We could not stop Burndown, but we could insert a delay into the sequence and redirect the worst of its energy. After the Earth’s tampering, the power was too volatile to simply pour back into Syl Anagist as we’d originally planned; that would have done the Earth’s work for us. That much kinetic force had to be expended somewhere. Nowhere on the planet, if I meant for humanity to survive—but here were the Moon and the moonstone, ready and waiting.

  I was in a hurry. There was no time to second-guess. The power could not reflect from the moonstone, as it was meant to; that would only increase the power of Burndown. Instead, with a snarl as I grabbed the others and forced them to help me—they were willing, just slow—we shattered the moonstone cabochon.

  In the next instant, the power struck the broken stone, failed to reflect, and began to chew its way through the Moon. Even with this to mitigate the blow, the force of impact was devastating in itself. More than enough to slam the Moon out of orbit.

  The backlash of misusing the Engine this way should have simply killed us, but the Earth was still there, the ghost in the machine. As we writhed in our death throes, all of Zero Site crumbling apart around us, it took control again.

  I have said that it held us responsible for the attempt on its life, and it did—but somehow, perhaps through its years of study, it understood that we were tools of others, not actors of our own volition. Remember, too, that the Earth does not fully understand us. It looks upon human beings and sees short-lived, fragile creatures, puzzlingly detached in substance and awareness from the planet on which their lives depend, who do not understand the harm they tried to do—perhaps because they are so short-lived and fragile and detached. And so it chose for us what seemed, to it, a punishment leavened with meaning: It made us part of it. In my wire chair, I screamed as wave upon wave of alchemy worked over me, changing my flesh into raw, living, solidified magic that looks like stone.

  We didn’t get the worst of it; that was reserved for those who had offended the Earth the most. It used the corestone fragments to take direct control of these most dangerous vermin—but this did not work as it intended. Human will is harder to anticipate than human flesh. They were never meant to continue.

  I will not describe the shock and confusion I felt, in those first hours after my change. I will not ever be able to answer the question of how I returned to Earth from the Moon; I remember only a nightmare of endless falling and burning, which may have been delirium. I will not ask you to imagine how it felt to suddenly find oneself alone, and tuneless, after a lifetime spent singing to others like myself. This was justice. I accept it; I admit my crimes. I have sought to make up for them. But …

  Well. What’s done is done.

  In those last moments before we transformed, we did successfully manage to cancel the Burndown command to the two hundred and twenty-nine. Some fragments were shattered by the stress. Others would die over the subsequent millennia, their matrices disrupted by incomprehensible arcane forces. Most went into standby mode, to continue drifting for millennia over a world that no longer needed their power—until, on occasion, one of the fragile creatures below might send a confused, directionless request for access.

  We could not stop the Earth’s twenty-seven. We did, however, manage to insert a delay into their command lattices: one hundred years. What the tales get wrong is only the timing, you see? One hundred years after Father Earth’s child was stolen from him, twenty-seven obelisks did burn down to the planet’s core, leaving fiery wounds all over its skin. It was not the cleansing fire that the Earth sought, but it was still the first and worst Fifth Season—what you call the Shattering. Humankind survives because one hundred years is nothing to the Earth, or even to the expanse of human history, but to those who survived the fall of Syl Anagist, it was just time enough to prepare.

  The Moon, bleeding debris from a wound through its heart, vanished over a period of days.

  And …

  I never saw Kelenli, or her child, again. Too ashamed of the monster I’d become, I never sought them out. She lived, though. Now and again I heard the grind and grumble of her stone voice, and those of her several children as they were born. They were not wholly alone; with the last of their magestric technology, the survivors of Syl Anagist decanted a few more tuners and used them to build shelters, contingencies, systems of warning and protection. Those tuners died in time, however, as their usefulness ended, or as others blamed them for the Earth’s wrath. Only Kelenli’s children, who did not stand out, whose strength hid in plain sight, continued. Only Kelenli’s legacy, in the form of the lorists who went from settlement to settlement warning of the coming holocaust and teaching others how to cooperate, adapt, and remember, remains of the Niess.

  It all worked, though. You survive. That was my doing, too, isn’t it? I did my best. Helped where I could. And now, my love, we have a second chance.

  Time for you to end the world again.

  2501: Fault line shift along the Minimal-Maximal: massive. Shockwave swept through half the Nomidlats and Arctics, but stopped at outer edge of Equatorial node network. Food prices rose sharply following year, but famine prevented.

  —Project notes of Yaetr Innovator Dibars

  13

  Nassun and Essun, on the dark side of the world

  IT’S SUNSET WHEN NASSUN DECIDES to change the world.

  She has spent the day curled beside Schaffa, using his still-ash-flecked old clothes as a pillow, breathing his scent and wishing for things that cannot be. Finally she gets up and very carefully feeds him the last of the vegetable broth she has made. She gives him a lot of water, too. Even after she has dragged the Moon into a collision course, it will take a few days for the Earth to be smashed apart. She doesn’t want Schaffa to suffer too much in that time, since she will no longer be around to help him.

  (She is such a good child, at her core. Don’t be angry with her. She can only make choices within the limited set of her experiences, and it isn’t her fault that so many of those experiences have been terrible. Marvel, instead, at how easily she loves, how thoroughly. Love enough to change the world! She learned how to love like this from somewhere.)

  As she uses a cloth to dab spilled broth from his lips, she reaches up and begins activation of her network. Here at Corepoint, she can do it without even the onyx, but start-up will take time.

  “‘A commandment is set in stone,’” she tells Schaffa solemnly. His eyes are open again. He blinks, perhaps in reaction to the sound, though she knows this is meaningless.

  The words are a thing she read in the strange handwritten book—the one that told her how to use a smaller network of obelisks as a “spare key” to subvert the onyx’s power over the Gate. The man who wrote the book was probably crazy, as evidenced by the fact that he apparently loved Nassun’s mother long ago. That is strange and wrong and yet somehow unsurprising. As big as the world is, Nassun is beginning to realize it’s also really small. The same stories, cycling around and around. The same endings, again and again. The same mistakes eternally repeated.

  “Some things are too broken to be fixed, Schaffa.” Inexplicably, she thinks of Jija. The ache of this silences her for a moment. “I … I can’t make anything better. But I can at least make sure the bad things stop.” With that, she gets up to leave.

  She does not see Schaffa’s face turn, like the Moon sliding into shadow, to watch her go.

  It’s dawn when you decide to change the world. You’re still asleep in the bedroll that Lerna has brought up to the roof of the yellow-X building. You and he spent the night under the water tower, listening to the ever-present rumble of the Rifting and the snap of occasional lightning strikes. Pro
bably should’ve had sex there one more time, but you didn’t think about it and he didn’t suggest, so oh well. That’s gotten you into enough trouble, anyway. Had no business relying solely on middle age and starvation for birth control.

  He watches as you stand and stretch, and it’s a thing you’ll never fully understand or be comfortable with—the admiration in his gaze. He makes you feel like a better person than you are. And this is what makes you regret, again, endlessly, that you cannot stay to see his child born. Lerna’s steady, relentless goodness is a thing that should be preserved in the world, somehow. Alas.

  You haven’t earned his admiration. But you intend to.

  You head downstairs and stop. Last night, in addition to Lerna, you let Tonkee and Hjarka and Ykka know that it was time—that you would leave after breakfast in the morning. You left the question of whether they could come with you or not open and unstated. If they volunteer, it’s one thing, but you’re not going to ask. What kind of person would you be to pressure them into that kind of danger? They’ll be in enough, just like the rest of humanity, as it is.

  You weren’t counting on finding all of them in the lobby of the yellow-X building as you come downstairs. All of them busy tucking away bedrolls and yawning and frying sausages and complaining loudly about somebody drinking up all the rusting tea. Hoa is there, perfectly positioned to see you come downstairs. There’s a rather smug smile on his stone lips, but that doesn’t surprise you. Danel and Maxixe do, the former up and doing some kind of martial exercises in a corner while the latter dices another potato for the pan—and yes, he’s built a campfire in the building lobby, because that’s what commless people do sometimes. Some of the windows are broken; the smoke’s going out through them. Hjarka and Tonkee are a surprise, too; they’re still asleep, curled together in a pile of furs.

  But you really, really weren’t expecting Ykka to walk in, with an air of something like her old brashness and with her eye makeup perfectly applied, once again. She looks around the lobby, taking you in along with the rest, and puts her hands on her hips. “Catch you rusters at a bad time?”

  “You can’t,” you blurt. It’s hard to talk. Knot in your throat. Ykka especially; you stare at her. Evil Earth, she’s wearing her fur vest again. You thought she’d left that behind in Castrima-under. “You can’t come. The comm.”

  Ykka rolls her dramatically decorated eyes. “Well, fuck you, too. But you’re right, I’m not coming. Just here to see you off, along with whoever goes with you. I really should be having you killed, since you’re effectively ashing yourselves out, but I suppose we can overlook that little technicality for now.”

  “What, we can’t come back?” Tonkee blurts. She’s sitting up finally, though at a distinct lean, and with her hair badly askew. Hjarka, muttering imprecations at being awake, has gotten up and handed her a plate of potato hash from the pile Maxixe has already cooked.

  Ykka eyes her. “You? You’re traveling to an enormous, perfectly preserved obelisk-builder ruin. I’ll never see you again. But sure, I suppose you could come back, if Hjarka manages to drag you to your senses. I need her, at least.”

  Maxixe yawns loudly enough to draw everyone’s attention. He’s naked, which lets you see that he’s looking better at last—still nearly skeletal, but that’s half the comm these days. He’s coughing less, though, and his hair’s starting to grow fuller, although so far it’s only at that hilarious bottlebrush stage before ashblow hair develops enough weight to flop decently. It’s the first time you’ve seen his leg-stumps unclothed, and you belatedly realize the scars are far too neat to have been done by some commless raider with a hacksaw. Well, that’s his story to tell. You say to him, “Don’t be stupid.”

  Maxixe looks mildly annoyed. “I’m not going, no. But I could be.”

  “No, you rusting couldn’t,” Ykka snaps. “I already told you, we need a Fulcrum rogga here.”

  He sighs. “Fine. But no reason I can’t at least see you off. Now stop asking questions and come get some food.” He reaches for his clothes and starts to pull them on. You obediently go over to the fire to eat something. No morning sickness yet; that’s a bit of luck.

  As you eat, you watch everyone and find yourself overwhelmed, and also a little frustrated. Of course it’s touching that they’ve come like this to say goodbye. You’re glad of it; you can’t even pretend otherwise. When have you ever left a place this way—openly, nonviolently, amid laughter? It feels … you don’t know how it feels. Good? You don’t know what to do with that.

  You hope more of them decide to stay behind, though. As it is, Hoa’s going to be hauling a rusting caravan through the earth.

  But when you eye Danel, you blink in surprise. She’s cut her hair again; really doesn’t seem to like it long. Fresh shaving on the sides, and … black tint, on her lips. Earth knows where she found it, or maybe she made it herself out of charcoal and fat. But it’s suddenly hard to see her as the Strongback general she was. Wasn’t. It changes things, somehow, to understand that you go to face a fate that an Equatorial lorist wants to record for posterity. Now it’s not just a caravan. It’s a rusting quest.

  The thought pulls a snort-laugh out of you, and everyone pauses in what they’re doing to stare. “Nothing,” you say, waving a hand and setting the empty plate aside. “Just … shit. Come on, then, whoever’s coming.”

  Someone’s brought Lerna his pack, which he dons quietly, watching you. Tonkee curses and starts rushing to get herself together, while Hjarka patiently helps. Danel uses a rag to mop sweat from her face.

  You go over to Hoa, who has shaped his expression into one of wry amusement, and stand beside him to sigh at the mess. “Can you bring this many?”

  “As long as they remain in contact with me or someone who’s touching me, yes.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  You look at him, but then Tonkee—still chewing something and shouldering her pack with her good arm—grabs his upraised hand, though she pauses to blatantly stare at it in fascination. The moment passes.

  “So how’s this supposed to work?” Ykka paces the room, watching everyone and folding her arms. She’s noticeably more restless than usual. “You get there, grab the Moon, shove it into position, and then what? Will we see any sign of the change?”

  “The Rifting will go cold,” you say. “That won’t change much in the short term because there’s too much ash in the air already. This Season will have to play itself out, and it’s going to be bad no matter what. The Moon might even make things worse.” You can sess it pulling on the world already; yeah, you’re pretty sure it’ll make things worse. Ykka nods, though. She can sess it, too.

  But there’s a long-term loose end that you haven’t been able to figure out yourself. “If I can do it, though, restore the Moon …” You shrug helplessly and look at Hoa.

  “It opens room for negotiation,” he says in his hollow voice. Everyone pauses to stare at him. By the flinches, you can tell who’s used to stone eaters and who isn’t. “And perhaps, a truce.”

  Ykka grimaces. “‘Perhaps’? So we’ve gone through all this and you can’t even be sure it will stop the Seasons? Evil Earth.”

  “No,” you admit. “But it will stop this Season.” That much you’re sure of. That much, alone, is worth it.

  Ykka subsides, but she keeps muttering to herself now and again. This is how you know she wants to go, too—but you’re very glad she seems to have talked herself out of it. Castrima needs her. You need to know that Castrima will be here after you’re gone.

  Finally everyone is ready. You take Hoa’s right hand with your left. You’ve got no other arm to spare for Lerna, so he wraps an arm around your waist; when you glance at him he nods, steady, determined. On Hoa’s other side are Tonkee and Hjarka and Danel, chain-linked hand to hand.

  “This is going to blow, isn’t it?” Hjarka asks. She alone looks nervous, of the set. Danel’s radiating calm, at peace with
herself at last. Tonkee’s so excited she can’t stop grinning. Lerna’s just leaning on you, rock-steady the way he always is.

  “Probably!” Tonkee says, bouncing a little.

  “This seems like a spectacularly bad idea,” Ykka says. She’s leaned against a wall of the room, arms folded, watching the group assemble. “Essie’s got to go, I mean, but the rest of you …” She shakes her head.

  “Would you be coming, if you weren’t headwoman?” Lerna asks. It’s quiet. He always drops his biggest rocks like that, quietly and out of nowhere.

  She scowls and glares at him. Then throws you a look that’s wary and maybe a little embarrassed, before she sighs and pushes away from the wall. You saw, though. The lump is back in your throat.

  “Hey,” you say, before she can flee. “Yeek.”

  She glares at you. “I hate that rusting nickname.”

  You ignore this. “You told me a while back that you had a stash of seredis. We were supposed to get drunk after I beat the Rennanis army. Remember?”

  Ykka blinks, and then a slow smile spreads across her face. “You were in a coma or something. I drank it all myself.”

  You glare at her, surprised to find yourself honestly annoyed. She laughs in your face. So much for tender farewells.

  But … well. It feels good anyway.

  “Close your eyes,” Hoa says.

  “He’s not joking,” you add, in warning. You keep yours open, though, as the world goes dark and strange. You feel no fear. You are not alone.