The Fall of Isbanir
by Rudi Dornemann
Children’s counting chant, recovered from shards of crystal memory cores found in the ruins of the prophets’ quarter, Sarandib city, on Saturn’s moon Enceladus.
1 for the citadel, proud and unbreachable
2 for the ion ghosts, crackling at dawn
3 for the sky-rings, lined like the plains
4 for the cinder-general
5 for her ash-gray armies
6 for the Kuiper-kings, in their halls of ice
7 for the emissary, with his gold-foil scroll
8 for the assassin, waiting on the road
9 for the identity mask, stolen and recoded
10 for the masquerade and its merry confusion
9 for the misled Duke, lonely in his garden
8 for the ice stiletto, evaporating after
7 for the ducal court, split between his children
6 for the late alliance, desperate and dangerous
5 for the ash-gray armies, massing on the plains
4 for the armistice, hasty, fragile, brief
3 for the yearlong siege and the songs of hunger
2 for alliance with ghosts, more desperate, more dangerous
1 for the citadel, echoing and empty
Reduction In Force
by David
I didn’t see any practical difference when they replaced the bus drivers with chimpanzees. When the grim ladies in the benefits office vanished and octopi took their places I thought it was an improvement. And so it went. In the end, zero human employment wasn’t such a bad thing. The factories ran smoothly staffed by giant spiders and genetically modified prairie dogs. Sylvia and I had our museums, parks, sidewalk cafés, and all the pleasures of a leisured life. I had my games and she had her tableau photography. We loved gallery openings, plays, espresso by the square. We had TIME. All that’s gone now, and I’m a hunted man.
One night I returned to our apartment after spending a couple of pleasant hours playing baseball in the park. I anticipated that Sylvia had prepared a delicious meal – gourmet cooking was a passion of hers. We would settle in at the entertainment portal and launch a beautiful milieu in which to eat our dinner. Maybe Venice before the Melting. I palmed the security pad, slipped inside, and stopped still. I sniffed the air. There was no sound; an acrid scent tickled my nose, and something else. The lights were off.
“Hi honey, I’m home?” My only answer was a faint rustling from the portal area. I flicked on the light.
“Is this a prank?” I think I already knew that it wasn’t. Something a lot like a mantis sat in Sylvia’s favorite chair. Its color matched her skin tone. Its mandibles clacked and a semblance of human speech emanated from its voder.
“This one regrets to inform that the female human has been downsized. This one will function as spouse at greatly reduced expense.”
I was already swinging the bat when the mantis lunged, jaws wide. Dense plastic met chitin-clad protoplasm, and ungodly amounts of green goo mixed with flesh-colored shards splattered everywhere. The mantis’s body jack-knifed across the room, legs thrashing. I dropped the bat and leaped to the chair. Most of Sylvia lay on the floor behind it, in front of the faux bookcase. The carpet surrounded her, wet and brown. I didn’t see her head.
The next thing I remember I was running down the street, bat in hand. I was sticky and I smelled. Everyone else was running too, perhaps for the same reason I was. I heard screams. I’m almost sure they weren’t mine.
end
