Stories

I wake up to a message and a certain intuition that my first ad of the day will be for Bubble Fresh. I can almost see it, flashing through my MindzEye, just in time for me to grab a pack at the…

Author: David Barber The machine followed the edge of a shallow methane lake, picking its way between ice boulders scattered like plump cushions along the shoreline. Because it was getting near to the recovery site, the machine decided to halt for a while to upload the backlog of weather data to the satellite link in […]

Clarkesworld Magazine - Science Fiction & Fantasy

Clarkesworld Magazine - Science Fiction & Fantasy

Clarkesworld Magazine - Science Fiction & Fantasy

Author: Don Nigroni The Time Scope is a device that can detect knowledge about the past. This knowledge can then be converted into images and sounds by the Presenter, a special super-computer. Say you want to know who the murderer is. You could use the Time Scope to learn that the killer had dark wavy […]

Author: Bob Freeman You’re riding on a carousel. The horsey rises and falls as the carousel spins. Look! A brass ring! Grab it. Good for you! You’ve succeeded at the “grab the brass ring” level. There’s another carousel spinning counterclockwise, half-a meter above yours. Saying goodbye to your trusty steed, you step from your carousel […]

Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer Jan could taste metal, and feel the pressure and heat outside the cockpit pressing in, the latter slowly baking him inside his flight suit while the former threatened to reduce him to a single dimensionless point in space-time. He’d done what he’d never imagined possible, pushed the limits of flesh […]

Macaroni’s workstation is set up just the way he likes it. He has a little laptop with little buttons for his little golden paws, adjusted to a comfortable height. His scratch post is within easy…

Author: Alastair Millar How hard could moving be? All I needed to do was mount the antigrav plates at the corners of my unit, then hook the place up to my hex bike and haul it off to its new location. Simple, right? Except Hygeia III seems to delight in making sure that nothing’s ever […]

Author: Majoki It’s peaceful now. I can concentrate better. Even reflect a little. It hasn’t been like that in a long time. Living in a city that’s eating itself is a noisy place. Even on the calmest days at the lab, there was always the sound of far off sirens. Plaintive calls, as if from […]

I knew she was there. Lenet believed she was stealthy, and would perhaps have been correct, had I not been the cat of the Duke’s Theatre for four long years. All the sounds that grand old building could make were known to me . . . including the sound of a barefoot Cait Sidhe girl stalking the rafters like the ghost of Hamlet’s father. The footsteps stopped above my head. “Rand,” Lenet hissed, voice pitched low to keep it from carrying to the audience below.

It’s only after they’ve loaded the moving truck halfway with boxes that the parents finally notice Parker’s gone. They spend three days yelling for him. Mom waits the longest, wanders the farthest into the forest in the dark. Her voice is a plea, an agonized howl, an echo of the day Eli closed his eyes and never opened them again. “Parker,” she cries, “Come on, be a good boy. Please.”

Her name, this time, is Marisol Lysium Brook. The media, long bored with the minutiae of her death, occupies itself by speculating which stars will grace the guest list at her reconstruction gala.

Witchcraft is a gift. Imelda would wave her steel spoon at Mercer and insist on this as he measured ingredients for her, whether she was boiling potions or a pot of farfalle pasta. Watch the salt, a teaspoon only, never pour too much. Don’t overheat the sauce. Bottle the hawks’ gizzards separate from the basilisks’. Never half-ass a gift, Mercy. Her perpetual imperative. Mercer is alone now. His hands are unsteady---they’ve shaken like a drunkard’s since they held Imelda as she passed---and he is no witch.

Don’t sell her. The thought rises like a tide in the back of Jeri’s mind, where she’s spent three Nikutan launch cycles struggling to contain it. It leaves her breathless, drowning in guilt, and trying to hide it from the krosuta-whitened stare of the Henza abbess. This is Cleo, not a load of ore. This will break her. And how could it not break her? She’s a lumbering old Juno-class cargo beast, poor Cleo, one of the earliest models.