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150 pages, Paperback
First published February 1, 2025
I know I've left the gentrified neighborhood when the ads stop offering me bodies. They offer me money in exchange for mine.
"This man tried to take over your town? Threatened you? Tried to kidnap you, personally, at least once? Pulled a knife on a kid? And you tried to make him your sports coach? Wouldn't it be better to just drop him down a sinkhole?"
"A thing isn't beautiful because it is perfect."
It’s common for spacers to talk to themselves—or to the ether, or to a bunch of little ghosts inside their heads that vaguely remind them of people they once knew—but in this case, it’s more than that. I think I’m trying to explain to myself why I’m still alive.
Why me, and not him.
Why now, and why here.
Why did we have to be the ones to find this place?
Why did anyone?
Why couldn’t it have remained obscure, untouched, forever?
Why did I have to leave Clorus-5?
Why couldn’t I be dozing right now in the shade of the family’s grazing cattle, on a ranch where my parents’ generation hybridized the local wildlife using a grant and special resources from Interplanetary, with nothing but a clean wash of pink-orange skies above me, and the faint sound of community chatter on the comms helmet buzzing at my side?
The china cup fell, shards scattering across the floor. Coffee ran along the cracks between the floorboards. My father stared at the mess on the floor in bafflement, as if trying to comprehend the existence of gravity. Suddenly he realized: this was Earth, not space. Surprised, I started to rise to clean it up, but he lifted a hand to stop me. He made the mess, so he should do the cleaning. He considered it a matter of personal dignity.
...
After some days, the people, dates, and cause-and-effect in the stories began to unravel as well; he rearranged and recombined them into many different versions. Every time he told the story, he’d leave some details out, and fill in new details. I felt like I was watching the dazzling Milky Way slowly distort into Van Gogh’s The Starry Night, then into a mere mass of colors, and finally into the undifferentiated gray-brown of the water used to rinse an artist’s brushes. By the end, he would repeat a sentence over and over, or get stuck on an adjective for ages, without realizing it was happening at all. When he finally did notice, he’d grow very agitated, thumping his fists furiously on his thighs, or the table, muttering obscenities, until, moments later, he forgot the failure.
But no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer tell a complete story.
They cut off Auréle’s head and they put it on a pike above the city’s third best bridge. To me, that seemed a shame. I had only just got his nose right.
...
They let me be, after that. They had no quarrel with the gasp and twitch of dying fish. I watched as they stripped my world to the bone. Every coin, every sheet, every disc. They laughed and they joked and then they stepped outside to win a war and bring peace and they even closed the door behind them when they went.
The unskilled stay where they land. They’d have better luck finding rinocrand ore in zero light than navigating the back of a beast, dappled with infinite blemishes like a holocopy of the stars it came from. So these unskilled, unlucky, latch themselves to the speckled skins like rock climbers, like barnacles. Nothing to do but brace themselves. Pray the atmo-suit keeps adhesion, pray asteroids are kind and avoidant. But barnacles survive the currents of the world too.