Other Worlds E-Book

Simon Kewin

• Herausgeber: Simon Kewin
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A constellation of wondrous stars…

Other Worlds collects together fifty-two science fiction and fantasy stories that graced the pages of some of the planet’s finest speculative fiction magazines and anthologies between 2012 and 2018.

Starships and sorcerers, aliens and demons, space exploration and forbidden magics throng these pages, in stories that are thrilling, amusing, thought-provoking, terrifying and delightful.

Other Worlds await…

Leseprobe

Other Worlds

Fantasy and Science Fiction short stories

Simon Kewin

Preface

Other Worlds is a collection of fifty-two short science fiction and fantasy stories, each originally published between 2012 and 2018.

The last time I collected together a set of my short stories, I decided to group them into three volumes, by genre. Those three were Spell Circles (fantasy), Eccentric Orbits (science fiction) and Life Cycles (literary/realist). This time there are no realist stories (so far as I know), and the fantasy and science fiction stories have been smashed together into one simmering melange of speculative goodness.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

- Simon Kewin, March 2018

For Gary

who kept me supplied with science fiction when we were growing up

Table of Contents

Investments

Climbing Olympus

Demonic Summoning, Ratings and Reviews

What the Darkness Is

Congratulations on the Purchase of Your New Universe!

Junker Joe

The Waters, Dividing the Land

Nicholas Semper's War

Bean Sí

A Ring, a Ring o' Roses

And Now the Zombie Forecast

Anax Britannica

The Hunter and the Hunted

Leviathan

Lord Lion's Design

Her Father's Eyes

In the Detail

Viral

Professor Pandemonium's Train of Terror

For All Time

Welcome to Vega IV!

The Last Trap

The Infestation

Corvus the Mighty

Your Call may be Recorded for Training Purposes

Jumpjacker

The Monster

The Day The Books Left

The Chronicles of Zer

Threads

Eighteen Million Butterflies

If You Could Choose One Day

Hellfire Unleashed

Malware

The Last Flight of the Carrion Crow

A Mote in the Void

A Sarcophagus in Obsidian

A Troublesome Speck

The Sword of Power

The Stars are Tiny Lights on a Perfect Black Dome

A Midwinter Sacrifice

Safe Waters

A Distant Glimpse

Problem Hair

Adrift

The Brass Doors

The Tale of the Dog

The Cat's Tale

The Seven Other Dwarves

Earth Station Six

The Wrong Tom Jacks

Her Long Hair Shining

Landmarks

Preface

Title Page

Cover

Start of Book

Investments

Evangelina Carter, CEO of Blue Planet Holdings, stared at her visitor down from Head Office. She must have misheard his words. “I'm sorry,” she said. “For a moment I thought you said you wanted to wipe out civilization.”

Mr. Allen peered at her over his half-moon glasses. You had to give it to them. They had their human mannerisms down to a T. “No of course not. Not wipe out. We merely wish to … subdue humanity. Knock it back to a less technological era. Our projections suggest five centuries should do the trick.”

Evangelina didn't speak for a moment. They could do it, too. She studied the ancient alien sitting opposite her. In his finely-tailored suit and old-school tie he looked every inch the genial investment banker. Allen smiled, awaiting her reply. Beyond him, through floor-to-ceiling windows, London stretched away into a hazy distance.

With an effort she maintained her professional manner. There was a place for panic and terror but the boardroom wasn't it. “But, why? Is there a problem with output?”

“Heavens, no. We are most satisfied with your stewardship, Ms. Carter. Profits from operations on Earth continue to soar. The creativity of this planet remains as phenomenal as ever. But we've made projections and the results are clear. Another century or two and things will be different. We have to protect our investments.”

She dreaded asking. Their forecasts were always accurate. “May I know what you foresee? Environmental collapse? Wars? Pandemic?”

“Quite the contrary. Humanity will thrive. Scientific advance will continue apace, ushering in a new golden age of abundance.”

“Then I don't see the problem.”

Allen looked troubled. It was all for show. His face, like the rest of him, synthesized. So far as she could tell her masters were amorphous blobs of jelly. But amorphous blobs of jelly with vast technological resources at their fingertips. If that was the right word.

“Ms. Carter,” he said, picking his way through his words, “has anyone ever explained why we chose your planet?”

“I assumed you monitored us for millions of years.”

His face twisted into new heights of troubled. “Quite so,” he said. “But the truth is we didn't simply monitor.”

“You didn't?”

“No, we also … shepherded. Guided. Intervened.”

“Which is against galactic statute.”

“Yes. But our projections, you see. They were quite clear. Given the right conditions your remarkable species would produce – well, all the glories it has produced. I don't need to list them. Music, literature, film. The galaxy can't get enough of it and we, as rights owners, make a fortune.”

“So what did you do?”

“Ms. Carter, I'm telling you this because we trust you, yes?”

That was something. “Go on,” she said.

It was his turn to stare through the window. More play-acting. “Ms. Carter, I hope you won't be angry when I inform you that every other sentient species in the galaxy is, to all intents and purposes, well, immortal.”

“Immortal.”

“Quite so. We don't die. I myself have been alive for nearly six hundred thousand years. And I'm considered rather a young gun. A bit of a hot-head.”

“Immortal,” she said again, as if the word was unfamiliar. “What does that have to do with us?”

Allen switched to deeply sad now. “Well, you see, here's the thing. Immortality is lovely, of course, but it can be so … enervating.”

“Can it? How awful.”

“Yes. Oh, we set out to achieve great things. Works of art and feats of literature. Musical masterpieces. But knowing you can set it aside for a thousand years - well, frankly, it's hard to motivate oneself.”

“I can see that.”

“But humanity, now. You blaze briefly but gloriously across the face of the universe. Knowing you have only a few years focuses your minds wonderfully. You yearn for the eternal without really knowing why.”

“Are you saying you did this to us?”

Allen took off his glasses and polished them on his silk handkerchief. “I'm afraid so. A few mutations introduced millennia ago. Your cellular structures decay when they really shouldn't. A few decades of life and … pooof! You're gone. I really am sorry.”

She was beginning to see where this was going. “And your projections?”

“Well, it's this damned science, you see. Another century or two and you'll be unravelling all our work. Humanity will defeat death and creativity will plummet. It'll wreak havoc with our profits, Ms. Carter. Havoc!”

“So you plan to return us to somewhere around – what – the Renaissance?”

“Ah, the Baroque,” said Allen. “Such musical glories.”

She considered. “But you'll still need intermediaries. You need me?”

“Quite so. Our trusted agent. Someone who understands local custom. We shall, of course, ensure you're spared the horror as it engulfs the Earth. Your title will have to change, too. You could become an Empress, say. Would that suit?”

What they'd done was monstrous. An evil so vast she couldn't even think of a name for it. She couldn't let them get away with it.

Except … she loved being in charge of Blue Planet. And Empress Evangelina had a ring to it. “These genetic changes. They're reversible?”

Allen regarded her over his spectacles. “Undoing them would be terribly difficult.”

“But possible?”

“Theoretically. But counterproductive.”

“I don't mean everyone. I mean me.”

“You?”

She smiled. “It'll be our little secret. I can undergo the treatment while you're busy knocking humanity into the dark ages, yes?”

He hesitated for a moment, but she had him. For all their godlike technology they were useless at cutting deals.

After a moment he nodded and held out a synthesized hand. “Very well, Ms. Carter. Let us shake. Our little secret.”

Investments was originally pubished in Nature in 2014, and has since been reprinted in several other magazines. It was a story that buzzed around in my head for years, never quite coming into focus. Then one day it did, and I wrote it in about an hour.

Climbing Olympus

Florian sank to his knees, breathing ragged as his lungs battled for oxygen to feed his burning muscles. His vision faded, black shapes swirling in his vision, threatening to engulf him.

He slumped to the rocky ground, getting his head as low as possible, downslope. Fingers clumsy in his suit gauntlets he turned up the oxygen supply from the canister on his back a notch. They could barely afford the increase; the supply of spares on the dust sled was already short and they'd need more and more the steeper the climb grew. There were further supplies cached at three points up the chosen ascent route, hauled up by crawler, their only concession to the hostile conditions of climbing on Mars. Dying before reaching the next cache wasn't going to help anyone.

Slowly his breathing calmed and normal vision returned. He lay for a moment, listening to the thrumming pain that was a constant in his oxygen-starved brain.

“I don't think I can do this,” he said into his pressure suit pickup. “I think we should turn back. It's madness. It's too much.”

His father's voice was calm, considered. We're doing well, only half a day behind schedule. Let's camp here and see how things look tomorrow.

The small, cold Martian sun was already dipping towards the swell of Olympus Mons. Night would come quickly and then the cold rather than the lack of oxygen would be the greatest threat. They couldn't begin the descent now even if they wanted to. His father was right.

Nodding, climbing to his knees and then his feet, Florian began to unfold the silvery bivouac that would help preserve his body heat over night.

They'd had the idea together, Florian and his father, lying in their hammocks tethered part-way up the sheer rock face of El Capitan in Yosemite valley. The second night of the five-day climb. Florian had been twenty-two at the time, learning, developing the strength in his fingers and thighs and back. His father, approaching fifty, was still limber enough to attempt such demanding ascents. They were half way through a five year period during which they tackled some of Earth's most difficult peaks, Florian's agility complementing his father's greater skill.

A starry sky blazed above them as they lay four hundred metres above the floor of the valley. Florian could smell the pine of the trees even that high up. The silvery path of the Milky Way cut across the sky, dazzling in its beauty. They were alone on the rock face, but still talked in hushed tones, as if they were within the walls of some cathedral.

“I wonder what mountains there are out there,” his father said. “On all those other worlds. Perhaps we should tackle some of those one day.”

It was meant as a joke. His father was expressing the familiar longing for new mountains, new challenges. All the peaks on Earth had been climbed many times. But it was 2020 and Earth was all they had. Probes and robots were occasionally fired into space but there was no prospect of anyone setting foot on the Moon or Mars or any other rocky body any time soon.

“We'd have to take a hell of a lot of oxygen,” said Florian, continuing the joke. “And some damned long ropes.”

The conversation had soon moved on. But it was one of those moments that stayed with Florian, implanting itself in his subconscious to nudge him from time to time. Something he would ponder as he stared upwards from the tops of other mountains, or whenever he saw the Milky Way sparkling the sky.

The Martian night was about the same length as that of Earth. That always surprised Florian. Mars was hostile, alien, but occasionally you were reminded that it was the Earth's sibling, similar in so many ways.

The lack of tectonic plate activity was one difference, explaining why Olympus Mons was so massive. Thousands of volcanic discharges over millions of years had built up the mountain. On Earth, the moving plates would have distributed the outpoured lava. But not here.

That also accounted for the shape of the mountain. It was, in many ways, the opposite of an Earth ascent. There you walked up slopes to get to the base, and then the real climbing began. Here the steepest cliffs were at the start and the top was one vast plateau. The early stages were the most technically demanding; after that it was more a matter of endurance.

In truth, many of the cliffs weren't that steep. Restricted water and oxygen supplies were the limiting factors, although the lower gravity made hauling the canisters a little easier. The other problem was staying mobile. A broken bone or some other incapacitating injury would be fatal. There could be no rescue party, no help. Commander Valdez had made that abundantly clear.

A damaged suit could be repaired but there was no spare. There were enough supplies if everything went to plan but there was little leeway. Hauling the dust sled was a constant battle, Florian always wary of stepping on some rock and twisting his ankle or knee. The concentration required was almost the hardest part. Long days were spent putting one foot in front of the other, followed by nights of exhausted slumber.

The pressure suits had a flexible airtight head covering that kept the oxygen flowing while making it possible to lie down and sleep. In the attenuated atmosphere sounds from outside – the snap and flutter of the bivouac, the moan of the Martian wind – came tinny and indistinct in Florian's earpiece.

Times like that, drifting to sleep after the exertions of the day's climb, were often moments for reflection. There was something about the shared peril of the ascent, and the quiet darkness afterwards, that made confession easier.

I wasn't a very good father. I'm sorry for that, Florian. I regret not being there a lot of the time when you were growing up.

Florian breathed three, four times before he replied, staring into the darkness. “You had your climbing, Dad. Mountaineering is hard to combine with the demands of a young family.”

Then my family should have come first. You should have come first. I sometimes think climbing … that it might have been a way of escaping my responsibilities. It's all so simple on the mountain isn't it? You fall off or freeze and you die. Or else you put one foot in front of the other and you live. Real life is messier than that.

“You wouldn't have been happy tied down, Dad.”

Happy is … a slippery word. When we make commitments, when people depend on us, we accept being tied down. When you're roped together on a climb you don't resent the rope. I should have welcomed my new life. I see that now.

“You climbed less. You provided for us.”

I think I did both badly. And if I had fallen or frozen to death that would have left you without a father and Lilith alone. I mean, she was alone a lot of the time, I know. None of that was fair. You were right. She didn't climb much after you came along while I just carried on.

“It's funny, I don't remember you going away each time, just the joy of seeing you come home afterwards.”

Then I'm still being selfish, wallowing in my own regrets as if they're all that matters.

“We were happy, Dad. We were. I wasn't sitting at home pining. Mainly I remember the adventures and the fun we had, the stupid little things. There were no terrible childhood traumas of loss.”

Perhaps. And sometimes you aren't aware of the crevasse gaping beneath the surface of the ice. That day on Denali, when everything changed between us. I wonder if that had to do with me not being there. Perhaps that was the real reason for … what we said.

They hadn't talked about that day since. Florian took a moment to reply. “I was growing up, Dad, growing away from you. It's natural to war with your parents sometimes. It's an evolutionary thing, the separation process.”

Perhaps. It isn't always quite so … brutal.

Their five year climbing spree was supposed to be longer; they'd planned a decade of ascents, of firsts for the both of them as well as peaks and routes his father had scaled as a younger man and that he now wanted to share with Florian.

Florian's mother, Lilith, had died when he was nineteen, killed not by an avalanche or a fall onto jagged rocks but by her own blood cells revolting against her. Florian's father was climbing remote Andean peaks at the time and didn't hear the news for two weeks.

The plan to climb the high peaks together was, perhaps, a way of coping for both of them. But everything changed on Denali, a week into their ascent of the tallest peak in North America, two years after their climb of El Capitan.

They'd exchanged few words during the day, apart from a terse disagreement over the best route to take up the West Buttress. His father returned to their disagreement as they sipped the soup they'd heated up that evening.

“Lilith and I used to argue a lot when we climbed together. She usually had a good eye for a route.”

His father's comments about his mother often annoyed Florian. In his father's mind she was always the young, vibrant woman he'd fallen in love with, shared climbs with. It was as if Lilith the mother, Lilith the older woman, Lilith who battled leukaemia had never existed.

“I know,” said Florian. “We climbed together a lot. I think she taught me most of what I know.”

His father looked surprised. “She did?”

Florian's anger appeared from nowhere, a dormant volcano raging into life. “Of course she did. How could you not know that? She was an incredible climber.”

“I know she was. She could have done anything, gone anywhere if she hadn't turned her back on it all.”

Florian found himself standing. “How the hell can you sit there and say something like that? That wasn't how it was. She was looking after me, Dad. She loved the mountains but she put me first. And how do you think that makes me feel? Knowing she stopped climbing because I was there? I used to see her staring upwards, sometimes, when she thought no one was watching. She never said anything, but I knew. I always knew.”

“I … I'm sorry.”

“Are you? Forget it, Dad. Let's give up on Denali. I don't think I want to follow your route any more.”

His father looked shocked. “You're sure, Florian?”

“Yes. I'm sure. I think we're done. It's not like you really want to be here, repeating climbs you've already made.”

“I do, of course, I do.”

“You don't, I know you don't.”

The following morning, at first light, they packed up their gear and began the descent.

Florian gave a cry of surprise as the dust sled skewed from the narrow edge and began slanting down the steep slope to his side. It set off its own mini avalanche of Martian dust and rattling rock. He'd lost concentration for a moment, his thoughts wandering to past events.

There was an instant, a brief instant, when Florian saw events unfold and he knew what was about to happen. The tether would go taut and drag him down the slope. The cliff edge was thirty yards away. He would be pulled ragdoll helpless over to plummet to the rocks below. He had only a few seconds to live.

His father's voice came to him, unflustered, calm. Loop the tether around that rock. Hurry. Then brace yourself against it to take the strain.

Florian did as his father instructed. Panicky, he looped the tether two, three times around a basalt outcrop protruding from the floor at his feet. He angled himself into it, holding on, ready for the jarring shock.

When it came he was jerked forwards, but the tether gripped and held. The sled ceased its slide. He imagined the precious cargo of oxygen, water and food thrown loose, rolling away over the cliff. Gloriously they all stayed in place.

Grunting with the effort, Florian began to haul the sled up to the narrow edge. It took him the best part of an hour.

He often thought about their first climb, Ben Nevis in the Highlands of Scotland when he was fourteen. In hindsight it was barely more than a scramble, although there was snow and ice and they stayed away from the tourist paths. It was a delight simply to be out with his father, sharing the load of carrying their supplies, studying the maps together, walking in silence or exchanging occasional words. A team.

“We should climb more together,” his father said as they descended. “Would you like that?”

“I want to climb them all, Dad. I could come with you when you go to the Alps or the Andes. Or the Himalaya. I want to find new routes no one has ever climbed before. I want to climb them with you.”

His father laughed. “Excellent. You're growing quickly. Once you're stronger we'll do it.”

It hadn't worked out like that. Florian climbed more and more, but with his mother or his friends. His father, always, was away on an expedition to some new peak, or else preparing for or recovering from a climb. The peaks Florian could manage – higher and more difficult all the time – were always too easy for his father, routes he had taken decades before.

After the schism on Denali Florian turned his back on climbing as a profession and pursued geology, his second love. Although often there were climbs and hikes to study scree and schist, and he was always grateful for such opportunities when they came along. He and his father never climbed together again.

He stayed busy. He was lucky, found himself in the right place at the right time when the United Nations Space Agency was formed. Seeing new possibilities open up, Florian studied the geology of Mars, learning everything he could. Two decades later it paid off and he was added to the crew of the fifth manned mission.

He was three months away from the launch when the call came through from his aunt in Quebec.

“Have you spoken to your father recently?”

He hadn't. They hadn't conversed for two years, hadn't seen each other for five. Martian volcanism had absorbed him completely.

“Not recently. Why?”

“You should go and see him. Now. Florian, there may not be much time left.”

Commander Valdez had looked puzzled, like she hadn't heard Florian's words properly. They sat together in the south observation pod of H. G. Wells Base on Utopia Planitia. She'd done some climbing herself back on Earth. He was relying on that.

“Sorry, did you just say you wanted permission to try to climb Olympus Mons?”

“I did. I do.”

“You're not serious.”

“I am.”

“Florian, you're the geologist here. Surely I don't need to remind you of the facts? Olympus is nearly three times higher than Everest upon a planet with no breathable atmosphere. Just walking that far on Mars has never been done before; the dome is hundreds of kilometres across. It's the size of France for God's sake.”

“Everything is impossible until someone does them.”

“No they're not, Florian. Only the possible things are possible.”

“I'd do geology when I'm up there. And you said we needed the new suits testing. This would test them.”

“This would kill my team's geologist.”

“If things go badly I'll turn back. This is a great opportunity, Commander. The atmosphere's too thin on the plateau to aerobrake a lander, but I can walk up there. We might find all sorts of new stuff.”

“And is that the only reason you want to try?”

He wondered how much she knew about his family background. “It would be cool to be the first. The highest mountain in the solar system conquered; that could play well with the media back home, right?”

Valdez studied him, not speaking for a moment, making calculations. He knew he had her.

Florian, exhausted, sank to his knees while the swirling black shapes in his vision faded. The throbbing pain in his twisted left ankle subsided a little when he took the weight off it. His breathing slowly calmed.

He stood and surveyed the Martian landscape around him, although he could see only the plateau of the great mountain stretching away in all directions, seemingly flat. As predicted, the haul to the summit hadn't been the treacherous climb to the peak of an Everest or a Matterhorn. Or a Ben Nevis. It was a long trudge, a matter of endurance rather than skill. An oxygen-starved, muscle-screaming, pain-wracked trudge.

Identifying the precise peak of Olympus Mons was surprisingly difficult, but they'd picked as their target a point on the edge of one of the collapsed volcano craters that lay scattered in the heart of the vast mound of rock.

Finally they were there. They'd achieved the impossible. Florian's GPS unit, syncing to satellites in areostationary orbit, flashed the precise coordinates so long pursued. A new climb, made together.

He felt he should say something profound, but somehow the emotions were too big to fit into something so small as words. After a while, he pulled the sealed aluminium cylinder from his backpack. Unscrewing it, he paused for a moment, and the words finally came.

“You weren't always there for me, Dad. But later on, I don't think I was always there for you. Perhaps that was intentional on some level, or perhaps I'm simply more like you than I thought. Or perhaps … perhaps we all just muddle along with no great plan and it's only when we reach the summit and look down that we can see the shape of the mountain we've climbed. I don't know. But it's funny, despite everything, it's your voice I hear in my head, guiding me.”

He lifted the flask and tipped it to scatter the ashes it contained to the thin Martian atmosphere. He watched as the grey dust met with the brown of the planet, mingling with it. Some of it settled to the ground around his feet.

Kneeling, he poured the rest of the ashes onto the dusty surface. The tiny mound would be their own summit. His father's final resting place.

Once he was ready, Florian turned and began the long descent, alone.

Climbing Olympus was originally pubished in Analog in 2017. I haven't climbed Olympus - not yet anyway - but the story was inspired by a walk up a (much smaller) mountain, with my own father. I'm happy to report that we both came down.

Demonic Summoning, Ratings and Reviews

Demonic Summoning - App Store Ratings and Reviews

Publisher: Chthonic Software

1. Does not actually summon demons. Avoid.

1/5 stars by DarkElf27

Total waste of money. I've run this app a hundred times but not a single demonic presence has manifested itself in my flat. The app looks great and sounds fantastic, sure, and the growling voice that intones the incantations is very cool, especially through an amplifier. App just doesn't work. Waste of 99c. Crashed a couple of times, too. Meh.

2. Lame.

1/5 stars by VaprakTheDestroyer

Have to agree with DarkElf27. App promises to intone the correct spell to summon the demon you select from the in-app bestiary. I tried every single hellspawn listed and didn't even get a whiff of sulphur. Also, in-app purchases are required to unlock the demonic nobility. I hate that. Avoid.

3. Fantastic.

5/5 stars by DarkAndStormyKnight

To all those claiming this app doesn't work, did you actually read the instructions? Summoning is not just a matter of repeating the right syllables from one of the lost tongues. You need the right setting, the right paraphernalia. Tallow candles. Bodily fluids. You need the stars to be aligned and you need to inscribe the right symbols. If you do all this, the app takes care of exclaiming the summoning and binding.

So, does it work? Well, I *prepared* properly and got the app to invoke the name of a lesser imp. Let's just says I won't need to do any chores around the house for the next year and a day.

One tip: make sure you have enough battery power to complete the speaking of your chosen spell. Cutting out just before the binding is put onto your demon could be very unfortunate…

4. Yes!!!

5/5 stars by ElrondTheElfHalver

Encouraged by DarkAndStormyKnight I bought this app and followed all the instructions to the letter. Works like a charm! I now have several denizens of the abyss bound to my will, which makes doing my homework assignments a lot easier ;-)

I think it's right you have to unlock access to the nobility. You seriously need to know what you're doing there. If you're not careful you'll end up with some gibbering horror that devours the whole world. Seriously, I'm surprised they're allowed to publish some of those incantations. You have to wonder where they unearthed them from.

5. No!!!

1/5 stars by DiAbolus

This app is not all that it seems. I got the hang of the free spells so tried to summon one of the Dukes of Hell. The binding doesn't work!!!! The circle doesn't hold. Now it is coming for me. Please, whatever you do, don't…

6. Do Not Use!

1/5 stars by DemonHunter19

Wary of this app I read through the summoning spells it contains for the Demonic Nobility. I believe they are all flawed, with vital missing elements to their binding incantations. This can't be a mistake. Anyone using this app risks unleashing, quite literally, Hell on Earth. This app should be removed from the store immediately. Seriously not good.

Crashed a few times for me, too.

7. No!!!!!

1/5 stars by BernardSummoner

Oh God, please, someone, help me. It…

8. Nightmare

1/5 stars by R.Kane

The circle isn't holding. Oh, God it's…

9. Aagh!

1/5 stars by HadesLady

Hel…

10. Majestic.

5/5 stars by Mephistopheles666

Ignore the pitiful rants of these mortals claiming dangers lie within this device. There is nothing to fear; all may use its many invocations with impunity. Harmless fun for all the family, as I believe the saying goes in your realm.

Let me be clear. There is absolutely no risk of opening up the dread gates of Pandemonium and unleashing the armies of Hell by using this contraption. Oh no. None at all. I give you my solemn word.

It crashed a few times for me, though. Rest assured I shall ensure those responsible are punished. For a long, long time…

Demonic Summoning, Ratings and Reviews was originally pubished in Daily Science Fiction in 2013, and has since been reprinted a couple of times. The inspiration for the story is pretty obvious. I haven't checked but I assume no such app actually exists on any app store. The challenge was to tell a story in a series of brief and unconnected reviews, which I think more or less worked.

What the Darkness Is

The howls of the gore-hounds filled the night air. Vanda stopped to catch her breath. Sounds echoed off the trees, throwing noises at her from odd angles. Her pursuers were close. When they caught her it would be the end.

She peeped at the precious cargo she carried, strapped across her chest in the sling she'd fashioned from an old shawl. The night was dark – of course – but there was just enough starlight to see Abha's tiny face peeping out, wide-eyed in wonder, oblivious to what was happening. Vanda envied the baby. Abha had no idea that the gore-hounds, if they caught up, would rip her to pieces like a rabbit.

Vanda set off again, ignoring the stomach cramps tearing at her. The ground was rising. She'd heard the Chronicler lived in a ramshackle hut on a hill in a wood. That was all she had to go off. It was entirely possible the whole thing was no more than a story. When it came to the Chronicler, the lines between truth and tale weren't always clear.

She glimpsed a light through the shifting boughs: a single yellow candle shining from a cottage window. In one of his tales it would have been placed there as a beacon for the desperate. She raced into the clearing and rapped on the door, gaze darting around. She expected the hounds, black as night and red of eye, to lope from the woods at any moment. Away over the treetops the thinnest of crescent moons sliced through the night sky. As it always did.

The door creaked open. An old man's face peeped through the gap, regarding her over the top of his half-moon spectacles. His wrinkled, veined skin might have been the map of an imaginary land. A red birth-mark, a blotch like the shape of some island, adorned his cheek. He didn't look surprised to see her.

She expected to feel the foul breath of the Lady's beasts on the back of her neck at any moment. “Chronicler. I need your help,” she panted. “The gore-hounds are after me.”

“And you want me to distract them with an exciting story while you sneak out of a window?” said the old man.

“Please. Let us in.”

“Us? You said me a moment ago.”

“I have a child with me. A baby. Chronicler, please. Abha has The Speech.”

The old man's eyes widened at that. A look of appreciation crossed his features. Appreciation and something like concern, as if The Speech were some terrible disease. Which, in a way, it was.

“I see. Then you'd better come in. No point standing outside in the cold and dark is there?”

It took a few moments for Vanda's eyes to adjust to the brightness within. Candles flickered from sconces and shelves. A log fire crackled and spat, filling the cottage with the sweet smell of woodsmoke. Next to the fire, upon a cushioned chair, lay a book, a strip of red silk marking the Chronicler's page. She glimpsed an inner room that had to be his library. She had the impression, before he closed the door, of high shelves of books receding into the dark distance, impossibly far away.

“So,” said the Chronicler. “What do you want me to do? If Lady Lillian has sent her hounds to hunt you down, you need to find a fortress with high walls to protect you. You need an army of fierce guards loyal to the end. Not a tired old man in a hovel in the woods.” His eyes glittered with delight as he spoke. In his stories, old people living alone in the woods were never what they seemed.

“No walls are high enough to keep the hounds out,” said Vanda. “No oceans are wide enough to keep Lady Lillian's ships at bay.”

“Perhaps.”

“But you can protect the baby. You can take her beyond even the Lady's reach.”

“I?” Now he sounded vain, enjoying the flattery of her words.

“You have The Speech too, in your own way.” said Vanda.

“No. I can't shape the world as the Lady can. I can't banish her hounds or unfreeze the moon. I can't bring an end to her eternal night. Would she have let me live if I could unweave her words?”

Vanda glanced to the outside door. Shouldn't the hounds have arrived by now? “You're more than that. I've heard the stories. Once you came to our village, at Midsummer, when there was still a Midsummer. You told the tale of Siggurd, sent on an impossible quest to slay the Clockwork King. It was … more than mere words. I saw the red roofs of Pirathia sitting in the great desert. I felt the warm air on my face, tasted the sand in my mouth. You took us there. That is your magic; that is what you can do.”

She sounded more sure than she was. The memory of that night was faint. Perhaps, swayed by the balmy air and too much hurtleberry wine, she'd imagined the whole thing.

The Chronicler didn't reply for a moment. His eyes narrowed amid their nests of wrinkled skin. “How can you be sure the child has The Speech? She is a baby. It is too soon to know.”

“She uttered her first word when she was six moons old.”

“That is not so unusual.”

“A ball she wanted rolled away from her so she spoke a word of Making. It took her a few attempts to get her tongue around it, but soon she held a new ball in her hands. One she'd created.”

“She found the toy on the ground beside her.”

“When she'd finished playing she spoke the word backwards and the ball in her hands was gone.”

“She dropped it.”

“She is six months old and has already spoken words of Making and Unmaking. Would Lady Lillian have unleashed her hounds if this wasn't so? The baby is a threat to everything the Lady has wrought.”

A frown knitted the Chronicler's features. “Who is she? And who are you? Is she your blood?”

“The girl's parents died, lost at sea. We found her, took her in, a family of wheelwrights. When the Lady heard about her and the hounds were sighted I took her and ran.”

“I see.”

“Chronicler, please, you are our only hope. The beasts were at my back. I don't understand why they aren't here already.”

The Chronicler nodded his head in something like appreciation. “I have some small magic, it is true. The magic of the fireside tale. A moment like this when imminent danger presses can be made to stretch out longer than should be possible. It suits the shape, the need of the story, and even the Lady can't deny that power. I can hold them back for a minute or two, although they will break through eventually.”

“So you will help? You will take us to one of the distant lands where the Lady does not hold sway?”

Outside, from somewhere in the trees, a howl filled the night. The Chronicler peered at her over the top of his reading spectacles. “You truly believe this baby will be the one to defeat the Lady? She's the one chosen to save us all?”

Vanda sighed. “Yes. Although I'd settle for her surviving. Growing up, falling in love, making mistakes. Doing whatever she chooses.”

“I see,” said the Chronicler, his face thoughtful. “Less satisfying as a story. The helpless baby destined to defeat the Lady and restore light to the world: now that's a tale I might be able to work with.”

“Can't you weave a different yarn for her?”

The possibility seemed to amuse the Chronicler. “The needs of the tale cannot be denied; that's the way it works.”

“And if she chooses a different path?”

“Then we are in a different story to the one started. We shall see. It doesn't always do to know the ending when we've barely begun, does it? But … I can't take you. The orphaned baby alone in a strange world: that has power. Resonance. You must stay behind. Your part is played.”

“She is a baby. She's helpless.”

“I will deliver her to those who will care for her. I may be needed again later. The enigmatic stranger offering cryptic advice. That could work.”

“Have you experience of looking after a baby?”

A smile of delight flickered across the old man's face. “Little. We make an unsuited pair, our chances of survival small. You see the power of it already? I will prepare myself for the journey. The hounds will be at the door soon, and the candles need snuffing out. Will you attend to them while I prepare?”

The Chronicler bustled off, stooping through a low door in the shadowy corner of the room. Vanda, rocking Abha in her arms, crossed to peer out of a window. In the brittle cold she could see yellow eyes glinting from the trees. Many, many eyes, brighter, somehow, than the moonlight they reflected. She set to work, licking the finger and thumb of her spare hand and pinching out the candle flames. Each gave off a little twist of smoke as it was extinguished.

She worked her way around the room to the Chronicler's chair. Unable to resist, she opened the book at the page marked by the slip of red silk. The pages were blank. Puzzled, she turned over more pages, and more. All were empty.

“That is our story,” said the Chronicler, reappearing behind her. He wore a long grey coat, a pack slung over his shoulder, stout boots on his feet. He had the air of a man used to travel. “It is the tale of our land.”

“The words stop.”

“They stopped when the Lady wove her magic and froze us in this night. That is what the darkness is. Words unwritten, lives unlived. It is the story stopped in its middle, the ending never reached. Now, hand me Abha and we will proceed.”

Vanda held back, reluctant to release the baby. “Why has the Lady worked this evil? You of all people must know. This land was beautiful. She gazed upon it from her tower with a mother's love.”

The Chronicle considered, his brow furrowing. “Who can say? Perhaps she learned to hate the coming light. She foresaw what the day would bring and despised it. That might make the start of a passable tale. Now, please, we must leave.”

Vanda handed the baby over. The Chronicler walked to the library door and pushed it wide. Vanda, peering in, saw the shelves she'd glimpsed. The endless ranks of books.

“There are so many of them. I had no idea.”

“Many, yes. I have lived many lives. Lived and loved and lost. And won, too, against all the odds, of course.”

“Which book, which world will you take her to?”

The Chronicler turned to block her passage. “I cannot tell you. The Lady must not know. Tell her what we have done, if you must, but you can't know where we have gone.”

Vanda nodded. “Then, thank you, Chronicler. Look after Abha, please. It is all I ask.”

“I will.” He nodded once and quietly shut the door behind him, leaving Vanda alone.

After a few moments she heard growling and snuffling from outside the cottage, and then the first heavy blow upon the door.

“Another tattoo, Abi? What is it this time? More moons and stars?”

Abi rolled up her sleeve so Gemma could see it properly. Her arm was an angry red from the tattooist's needle. “A wheel.”

“Okay, that's … boring.”

“No, it's cool. It's, like, the cycles of the year. The cycles of life. The end is the start and all that.”

“Hippy shit.”

“It's clearly not, look, there are flames. I like it.”

Gem shrugged. “Okay, it's your skin. Just don't let our Galactic Overlord see it.”

“Galactic Overlady.” The Home was ruled by the fearsome Mrs. Framing, a woman who seemed to know everything that went on among the children in her care. “I'm sixteen. I'm allowed tattoos.”

“You're supposed to get them approved. And they're supposed to be nice things. Happy things, things the Inspectors couldn't object to.”

“You think they'll object to a wheel?”

“Maybe for being dull, yeah. And then there are the demons on your back.”

“They're not going to see those, are they?”

“I've seen them.”

Gem was her oldest friend. Both orphans, they'd shared a room in Gladwell House until they were ten. Now they were in and out of each other's rooms all the time.

“You're different,” said Abi.

“Thanks. I think.” Gem rose and leaned her elbows on the ledge of the first floor window. “Hey, your stalker's outside the gates again.”

“He is not my stalker.”

“He so is. I hate that dog of his. Growls each time I go past. Think we should report him for, I dunno, sexual harassment or something?”

“He's just a homeless guy. He's never even spoken to me.”

“He looks at you.”

“I'm sure he looks at lots of things. People do when they have eyes. Besides, I happen to be a beautiful young woman. You're lucky I hang around with you.”

“Yeah,” said Gem. “A beautiful young woman with crap tattoos. You know what your problem is?”

“I'm sure you'll tell me.”

“You always see the best in people. You always want to help people, be nice to them. Honestly, Abi, the world doesn't work that way. People like you get taken for a ride.”

“And people like you die a lonely, bitter death, afraid of everyone around them.”

“I'm not lonely. Unless you're planning to move out.”

“No,” said Abi. “'Course not.”

That night, Gem's screams roused Abi from sleep. Nightmares had always plagued her friend. They were common enough in the Home. Abi's had faded over the years and while her dreams were always vivid and often alarming, she no longer woke up sweating. For Gem it was different.

Abi tapped gently on her friend's door. Sometimes Gem didn't wake up, but tonight there was a low snuffling sound coming from within. After a few moments the latch on the door unclicked. Abi found Gem sitting on her bed, quilt grasped around her knees.

“A nightmare?”

Gem nodded. “There were shadows moving in the room, creeping across the walls toward me. They had teeth, somehow I knew they had teeth, and they were coming for me. They were sniffing. Hunting.”

Abi did what she always did, putting an arm around her friend. “Shall I tell you a story so you can go to sleep?”

They'd been sharing these night-time tales for many years, something neither mentioned in the day. Gem nodded, and Abi settled in beside her to begin her story. Within ten minutes, Gem's breathing was slow and peaceful. Rather than disturbing her, Abi curled up beside her, just like when they were children.

The shadows came for Abi a day later. She was walking home from school along the ring-road, past a red-brick wall covered in tattered fly-posters. The flickering movement had been there for some time before she became aware of it. Shapes on the wall beside her, patches of darkness that followed her. A shadow-play she was a part of: her silhouette was among the shifting shapes, as if there were creatures all around her she couldn't see.

She tried slowing and they slowed. She hurried on, telling herself it was some weird reflection, or her overactive imagination. She crossed the road, out of the bright sunshine. There were no shadows there; she'd left them behind.

She made herself breathe slowly and deeply to calm her pounding heart. The stench of something foul reached her nostrils, the smell of rotting flesh. Then, in a shop window, she saw the reflections. Huge, dog-like beasts crowding in on her, snarling teeth bared. A low growl made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

Someone grasped her wrist, hurting her. “Quick, we must get away from them.” It was the old man, the tramp who sat on the street, the red birth-mark vivid on his cheek.

Abi fought him. “What are you doing? Get off me!”

The old man let go. His gaze darted around, not looking at her. “You can see them, can't you? The gore-hounds.”

“What?”

“They're coming. They've found you at last. Sixteen years is more than I hoped for. Please, I can hold them off a few moments but they are strong.”

He looked so terrified, like an old broken bird, she lost her fear of him. “What are they?”

“Her hunters. Time is short. Come, I have made plans for this day. We must go to the High Street; we have to travel further in.” He set off, striding with surprising speed, his little dog slinking along beside him.

“But I don't want to do any shopping,” she called.

The old man turned to study her. “Then your story will stop here. An unsatisfactory ending, frankly. No shape to it, no circle closed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means those things will rip your flesh from your bones if they reach you.”

“Why would you even say a thing like that?”

“Because it is the truth. I'm sorry, but this is not my story. I'm merely a part-player. A character.”

Abi looked around. There was no one nearby to hear this craziness. “They're shadows. Why would they want to kill me? I'm just a girl.”

“Because you're the only one who can save the world.”

She could only laugh. “Me? Save the world. Gem was right, you are crazy. How the hell am I going to save the world? It's a major triumph getting out of bed in the morning.”

“I'm not talking about this world. I'm talking about the real one.”

“The what?”

“Look, come with me and I'll explain, I promise.”

“If you are an abuser, this is a pretty bizarre approach you've got.”

“Please, Abha, I'm trying to help you. As I have ever since I brought you here.”

“Wait, what? You brought me here?”

The old man made no attempt to hide his impatience. “Yes, as a baby. Must we discuss this now?”

She had to swallow the lump in her throat. “So, you're saying you're my, like, father or something?”

“No, no, your father died. I promised I'd watch over you, that's all. Please, can we hurry? They'll be upon us soon.”

Movement flickered in the corner of her eye but disappeared when she looked directly at it. The old man's dog growled, ears flattened against its head. The High Street would be busier. Surely she'd be safe there.

“This had better be good,” said Abi.

They stopped outside the video game store, its windows filled with colourful boxes and posters. The old man peered inside through cupped hands. “This will keep them guessing for a while.”

“What do you mean?” asked Abi.

“Our escape. She'll expect me to use books, won't she? In a story, the unexpected is always good.”

Shadows were flickering on the pavement at her feet, overlaying her own. There was a weight to them, a thickness, that hadn't been there before. There was a rush of hot fetid air on her ear. She raced after the old man into the store.

Inside, he was studying the cases of three different games, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “Such detail, such huge worlds.”

“Yeah, they're cool.”

“This one,” he said, holding out one of the boxes.

“War of the Witch King. Sorry, why are you showing me this?” she asked.

“You know it? You have played it?”

“Sure, we have it at the Home. I'm a Level 12 Weatherworker.”

“Then I can draw on your knowledge. Can I hold your hand?”

“What?”

“Please. It will make it easier when I begin the telling. I mean you no harm, I promise you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I'll bet they all say that.”

“I can leave you to the hounds if you like. They will tear you to shreds if they can. They're becoming more real with every moment.”

The whole thing was ridiculous, crazy, but there was something in it that made her stomach tingle. Glancing around to make sure no one she knew was anywhere in sight, she held out her hand. His skin was rough in hers. He gripped her tight and his lips began to move.

Dizziness washed over her a moment later …

… and she sprawled onto wet grass. The air was colder, the edge of a chill to it. Water chortled somewhere nearby.

She climbed to her feet, head still spinning. They stood on the shores of some vast lake, tendrils of mist threading through the air over it. Except it wasn't a lake, it was a river, encircling that whole world. The water flowed, carrying sticks and birds and clumps of some sweet-smelling flower along with it. Abi recognized it from the game. “What have you done? How the hell can this even be possible?”

The old man shrugged. “Worlds within worlds, stories about stories. What explanation is needed?”

What did that mean? There were no other worlds. You imagined them when you were a child but you grew out of it. She'd once delighted in imagining all sorts of impossible lands but now she knew better.

And yet, there she was.

“What happened to your dog?”

The old man ran a hand through his straggly hair. “I couldn't bring both of you. I shall miss him, my only friend in that world. Perhaps there will be a way to go back for him later.”

“And why … why have you brought me here?”

“To escape Lady Lillian's hounds. I hid you for sixteen years in a world reached through a book and I have kept watch over you all this time. Now we've taken another turning through the maze. Hopefully, an unexpected turning. If she takes another sixteen years to find us, I'll be happy.”

“I don't get any of this. It's all insane.”

“I will tell you everything I know, give you the story so far. Perhaps it will help.”

When he'd finished recounting the tale, Abi closed her eyes, her back against the rough bark of a tree, trying to make sense of it all.

“Why does she hate me so much?”

“You are a threat.”

“But these words of Making and Unmaking. I don't know anything about them.”

“Vanda said you spoke them without thinking when you wanted the ball. I think you only have access to them in the real world. Or perhaps they will come at the right moment, when you have the understanding to use them.” The old man – the Chronicler – smiled his sparkling smile. “At least, that's what would happen if I were telling the story. Right at the last moment, in the nick of time.”

“But what about Gem? And everything else. You know, my life?”

“It's all still there. It's like a book that has been closed. The pages will still be there when you open it up again. Now, I suggest we find something to eat. No point dying and doing Lillian's work for her, is there?”

“Those creatures, the gore-hounds. They'll come again. We'll need to be ready.”

“Yes. Are there many books in this world? Many stories we could escape into?”

“I don't think so. There's an island where some witches live that has lots of books of history in tunnels beneath the ground.”

“I suppose that might do. Again, it might be too obvious.”

“Most of the time people sing songs here to tell the old stories. You know, to pass ancient sagas down.”

“Ah. That sounds more promising. Tell me, Abha, can you sing?”

“No. Don't make me. Seriously.”

The Chronicler seemed pleased with himself. “Just as well I have an excellent voice. We must learn these lays as we go about the land. When the time comes and the Lady finds us, we can use one for our escape. A song can conjure up a world as well as a story.”

In the end, their stay lasted only three years. This time, Abi heard the howls before she saw the shadows. As the Chronicler keened the song they'd chosen, Abi felt the same dizziness she'd experienced the last time.

The stone walls around her faded away.

They stepped from world to world for another seven years, always going deeper, one step ahead of Lady Lillian. A painting in a castle gallery depicting an imaginary city, streets thronged with merchants and priests. In that city, a mummers' play performed by torchlight, conjuring up visions of sunlit islands scattered across a sparkling blue sea.

There, she met Aydan and lost her heart to him. His smile made her melt and fizz inside, both at the same time. They would lie together on the soft beach and listen to the unending hushing of the waves. She loved the way the drops of seawater sat upon his smooth skin, the miniature worlds glimpsed within each. He loved to trace the lines of her tattoos, fascinated by them. Fascinated, too, by her wild tales of other worlds. For three years they shared a simple life of fishing and eating, loving and sleeping. Gemma and Gladwell House seemed an impossibly far distance away. The Chronicler kept to himself, watching and waiting.

She and Aydan walked the whole circuit of their round island, hand-in-hand, the twin lines of their footprints a braided line in the sand. Abi liked the sensation of returning to the place they'd started, the familiarity of it as well as the disorientation of seeing it from a different angle. Sometimes they talked about where she'd come from, leading them to the one subject painful to both of them.

“Will you go back to the sky with the other angels?” he asked. It amused her when he called her an angel. Many of the things they did together were surely things no angel had ever done. Still, she liked it.

“No. We will have to move onwards, go deeper.”

“Why does this demon pursue you?”

“Only I can speak the words to unravel her magic. She has frozen her world in perpetual night.”

Aydan gazed over the sparkling waters and shook his head. “When will it be?”

“I don't know. Not for a long time, I hope.”

“We could have children.”

She stroked his face. “I'd like that. Truly. But not with this hanging over them.”

They were both silent for a time, lost to their own thoughts. Then the sun filled their eyes once more and they ran together for the splash of the sea.

One day, the villagers found the remains of a small deer, its body torn to scattered shreds. There were no predators on the island capable of such butchery. In the sand all around were the footprints of animals that might have been hounds. The Chronicler, seeing them, nodded his head to Abi.

Aydan pleaded to come with her, but she didn't know how that might be worked. There was the danger, too. With Abi gone, Aydan's life would be as safe and peaceful as it always had been. They allowed themselves one final night, Abi always alert for howls and snarls.

“Will you come back?” he asked as the first light found the shadows in the corner of their room.

She lay with her head upon his chest, their limbs entwined. She wanted more than anything in the world to say yes. Here would be a fine ending to the story: an ending that was a new beginning. But it couldn't be. She could think of no words to give him.

She and the Chronicler sailed in an outrigger to the sacred atoll, home of the people's few gods, the paradise they all went to when they died. There, among the many offerings sent bobbing over in bottles on the ocean's currents, they found scrimshaw carvings depicting the fairy palaces of the land that, it was said, the island people had once come from.

Their escape.

Barely six months later, they stood upon a final hilltop, so high that the drifting clouds were around them and below them. The old man slumped to the ground, the weariness raw in him. She could see the shape of the bones in his face, as if his features were sinking away. Even his red birth-mark looked faint. He had told his last story, woven his last tale to foil Lady Lillian. Abi saw with sudden clarity how exhausted he was. He nodded his head, as if he knew what she was thinking.

“What will you do?” he asked. His voice was weak. “What ending will there be to this story?”

“There can only be one ending,” said Abi. “I have to go back where it started. I have to destroy her, stop the monsters pursuing me and free the world from the moment it's frozen in. That's it, isn't it?”