“I’m sorry, what was that?”

She’s between shifts, tired now, floating weightless at the center of the ship, warming herself around a bulb of throat-shreddingly flavorless ethyl, letting the kinks work themselves loose in the long muscles of her back. Savoring the receding soreness.

“Five hundred days, I said. Do the third row before the second tomorrow, that’s all.” The balear making the pitch isn’t one she knows, but she recognizes the babyface of a habitual sailor, the loose-limbed confidence of a woman who’s spent her life off the islands.


“Doesn’t matter to you. Hell, doesn’t matter to me. Who knows? Somebody wants it in that order, that’s all. Five hundred days. No harm done, hey? What does it matter, an hour or two either way?”

She revolves it this way and that but can’t find the hook. “Deal,” Petra says, and the balear buys them both a drink to seal it. She’s got a good smile, that one, and the long hands of a pianist or rifler. Petra buys the next round, and they take them back to her nest in the rigging to drink them. There’s no privacy, but the baleares are tactful; it’ll do.


She’s tired of death.

Petra gets a job as an eileithyia on a barque making the centuries-long loop between Here and There. It’s quiet work, and warm, a far cry from the rigging and the rifles she got used to on her trip out, though she still bunks with the baleares. They go up and she goes down, through the ship’s envelope of water, through gardens, past gravity, into the gentle near-weightlessness of the creche.

The bags are arranged chronologically, so she recapitulates phylogeny over the course of her shift, zygote to blastocyst to embryo to fetus to infant; eyes sprout, fingers bud, legs kick. Squib work, nothing too complicated: she monitors hormone levels, implants placentas into amniotic sacs, recycles the 4% of implants that fail.

Decanting happens on the other shift, but she attends as often as she can. There’s always a good crowd arranged quietly against the dura, bearing witness to the orderly parade of births. It’s good luck, they say, a safeguard against radiation and the drag of the islands. They hold their breath while the eileithyia scrapes off the caul and a new crewmember draws their first shuddering lungful of air; united, however briefly, in purpose.

The Gentle Art of Passing

Death when it comes for Petra is boring, not worth all the bother. Pop, and she’s alive again on the other side. Maybe her clothes are cleaner? If they are, she can’t tell. It’s a lot more crowded here than it was before, that’s how she knows, that and she makes eye contact with a prick with giant muttonchops and he winks and curls down into age, all liverspots and rheum, then further down into springy adolescence (awkwardly hunched forward over a boner, dear GOD), then unfurls back as he was.

Some sort of welcome, she guesses.

She was a roving sort before, and not much for city streets, but there doesn’t seem to be an end to this one, or maybe they’ve all bled together, cities piled high and strung along an endless network of rivers. She walks for centuries and never sees a tree without a sidewalk girdling it or a house spread underneath it, and everywhere EVERYWHERE people, thousands deep. You’d stifle if any of them weighed a damn. As it is she never quite gets used to people sliding through her; always a plucked nerve, or one thin violin string that never falls silent.

No Fear of Mercury

Every day, monsters.

One of her regulars: a woman with the diamond-toothed head of a kitten. Nonfat sugar-free vanilla latte. She drives a Humvee, and though Petra has never seen them, a kindle of children squabble deep within its cool, mirrored depths. Do they take after their mother?

Another, new today: one singular chicken-scaled leg below, one impudent fleshy horn above. Blank, nonjudgmental eyes of a newborn saint and the tight-curled hair of a prophet. Depth charge: a shot of espresso in an artillery of coffee. Pleasant-voiced, as deep a soothing rumble as his child’s chest will allow.

“Good work again today,” the blemmya tells her, her voice muffled by the thin muslin shirt. Petra struggles as always for politeness, drifting haplessly from the space where her head isn’t to the motile expansive of her shirt. “You’ll make manager yet.”

Petra shudders in delicate horror.


Petra’s hit with a wave of homesickness so intense she has to lean her rifle against the ship’s rail and close her eyes for a second. One of her fellow baleares bobs over. “Hey, are you okay?” She waves him away, swamped by faces she hasn’t remembered in years, old lovers and family.

It takes her a while to pick out the sun among the byzantine tangle of the rigging. Out here it’s little more than a slightly larger, marginally brighter star. She locks on it, slows her breath and her heartbeat, lets the minor hypnosis calm her. The past drops away. She blinks, and there’s the homely face of her centurio; she’s quiet in a way that means she just finished saying something.

“I’m sorry,” says Petra. “Just a little light-headed.”

The centurio sizes her up, not unsympathetically. “First time off the islands?”

“I— yeah.” She’s obscurely ashamed; for a second dizzingly young again, vulnerable and adrift.

“Don’t worry about it. Leaving hits some folks that way, that’s all. You’ll get over it, assuming y’stay on; people mostly do. Y’need a moment?”

Petra reshoulders her rifle and tries to claim her old brave swagger. “I’m okay.”

“That’s the way!” The centurio claps her on the shoulder, then has to grab her before she goes over the railing. They build women strong on wherever her island was. “Back to your post, balear.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Petra, and retrains her eyes on infinity.