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The Artificial Bees - Uncanny Magazine
The Artificial Bees - Uncanny Magazine
Randall lowered one foot on to the surface of green fibers. The organic matter yielded under her weight but seemed to support her. She dared to put a second foot on to the strange, graminoid material—just as Archive came back with a response. “A lawn,” it told her. “Proceed with operation.” Randall prowled across the …
·uncannymagazine.com·
The Artificial Bees - Uncanny Magazine
And the Balance in Blood - Uncanny Magazine
And the Balance in Blood - Uncanny Magazine
Sister Scholastique rolled onto her back. She pulled her hard, sawdust–stuffed pillow over her head and reflected on the sure and certain hope for peace and for virtue rewarded in the next world. She had determined that there was little enough of either in this one. The monastery dogs had been barking for half an …
·uncannymagazine.com·
And the Balance in Blood - Uncanny Magazine
Interlingua - Uncanny Magazine
Interlingua - Uncanny Magazine
I was monitoring Cherie Peng’s pulse, breathing, her sweaty palms, all of it, when the Sarissa interrupted me. “This proposal of yours,” the Sarissa said. She—the Sarissa insisted on the animate feminine instead of the inanimate sentient pronoun like most of us ships—sent me the document reference so I knew which proposal she was talking …
·uncannymagazine.com·
Interlingua - Uncanny Magazine
A Call to Arms for Deceased Authors' Rights - Uncanny Magazine
A Call to Arms for Deceased Authors' Rights - Uncanny Magazine
I Prelude An author dies. Then the newly discovered texts surface. They’re drafts, notes, sometimes entire manuscripts. They appear in the clutter on a desk, or in the publisher’s computer, or among newspapers and dead spiders in a summer cottage chest. Sometimes they spill forth as if from a horn of plenty (see: Tolkien). Sometimes …
·uncannymagazine.com·
A Call to Arms for Deceased Authors' Rights - Uncanny Magazine
The Spy Who Never Grew Up - Uncanny Magazine
The Spy Who Never Grew Up - Uncanny Magazine
There is a magic shore where children used to beach their coracles every night. The children have stopped coming now, and their little boats are tipped over on the sides, like the abandoned shells of nuts eaten long ago. The dark sea rushes up to the pale beach and just touches the crafts, making them …
·uncannymagazine.com·
The Spy Who Never Grew Up - Uncanny Magazine