SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

It now bore only two words: Codex Umbra .

Hours later, when Sal and Menchú reached Rome, the Archives still looked like a bomb had hit them. A non-fiery, book-oriented bomb, sure, but a bomb nonetheless.

Asanti took a break from picking up the pieces of her library to hug them both. Sal felt a surge of relief as her arms went around the archivist. Sometimes you just had to touch someone to prove to yourself that they were still alive.

“Liam is glued to his computer,” Asanti told Sal when she asked about the others. “Grace went home to sleep.”

It had been a long three days for everyone, Sal supposed. Between being up all night for the Market, plus staying up for most of the days between, Sal felt like she hadn’t slept in a week. She’d dozed for a few hours on the train, but her sleep had been filled with dreams of wandering the corridors between compartments, looking for something. She certainly didn’t feel rested. Then again, she never had slept well away from her own bed.

Bed.

Liam.

Sal excused herself and went in search of their beleaguered tech expert. Time to prove to herself that he was still alive too.

She found him, as promised, hunched over his laptop, and lingered in the doorway, waiting for him to notice her. When he didn’t, she cleared her throat. Liam looked up.

“You saved the day,” said Sal. “Nice work.”

Liam shrugged off the compliment. “Not quick enough. Who knows what those techno-bastards found while they were flipping through the Archives? Or what they left behind.”

“Did you find any reference to the Codex Umbra ?”

“Not even a description of what it might be. Which is what worries me.”

Sal sighed. “Take the win, then. We’ve got a hell of a mess to clean up, but at least we’re all okay, right?” She slid up behind him, letting her thumbs dig into the tense muscles of his shoulders. “Thanks to you.”

He shrugged her off. “Unless Mr. Norse managed to find and erase the information he was looking for. With all of the books the hack disturbed, it could take us centuries to find out what damage he did.”

Liam turned back to his computer. Sal blocked him by plopping down in his lap. “If it will take centuries anyway, it can wait until morning.”

“Sal, I’m too tired—” he began.

“And so am I. But I’ve spent the last three days afraid you were going to die, and I don’t want to be alone tonight. Besides, you look like hell. You’re going to have to sleep sometime; it might as well be with me.”

Liam gently put his hands on her waist and lifted her to her feet. “Okay,” he said. “But go ahead. I’ll let myself in later.”

Sal wanted to protest, but she was too tired. “Fine. Whatever you want.”

That night, Sal dreamed of wandering the streets of Rome, looking for that same thing she could not name. When she finally woke, hours past dawn, the other side of the bed was undisturbed.

Menchú stayed in the Archives late into the night. The niche he had previously designated as his office had been completely destroyed by Mr. Norse’s hacking. His poor, long-suffering chair had lost a leg at some point, snapped off just below the seat. Menchú located the missing piece and was contemplating repairs when he felt Asanti staring at him.

“Did you tell her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Now she knows. But I don’t know that it’s made her a more cautious swimmer.”

Asanti made a noncommittal “hmm” noise.

Menchú quirked an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“Did you ever consider that you learned the wrong lesson from your experience with the angel in Guatemala?”

“It tortured and murdered an entire village. It wasn’t an angel.”

Asanti shrugged. “You’ve read the Bible. God kills people all the time. Violence, disease, apocalyptic flood. Even Jesus had a temper.”

Menchú felt his own temper rising and made an effort to keep it in check. Asanti continued.

“You’d dealt with demons before. If you’d realized what the boy was immediately and banished him, or refused to make a deal, would the massacre still have happened?”

“If you’re trying to say that what I did didn’t make a difference, I assure you—”

“I’m saying that you knew demons were evil before that night. If that was the lesson you were supposed to learn, someone was being very redundant with your education.”

Menchú let out a long breath. He was too tired to have this discussion now. Possibly ever. “What’s your point, Asanti?”

“Demon, angel, or something else, from what you’ve told me, making a deal with that thing was the only possible way you could have prevented a massacre that night.”

Menchú gritted his teeth. “But I did, and it didn’t.”

“But what if that was the lesson?” Asanti gripped his sleeve, begging him with her eyes to listen and understand. “Next time, make a better deal.”

Menchú turned away. Asanti let go of his arm, and he heard her footsteps fading away, quickly muffled by the destruction around them. Her words lingered long after she had disappeared among the stacks.

Next time.

Originally published by Ace Books (editor Anne Sowards)

For promotion purposes only

The ship was in bad shape. It was a miracle it had come through the void at all, let alone come through in one piece. Ean patted the chassis that housed the lines. “You did good, girl,” he whispered. “I know that, even if no one else does.”

It seemed to him that the ship responded to his touch, or maybe the feel of his brain syncing with hers.

The crewman who showed him the lines was nervous but polite. “We’ve waited two months for this work,” he said. “Glad they’ve finally brought someone back.” He hesitated, then asked the inevitable question in a rush. “So what’s it like? The confluence?”

Ean considered lying but decided on the truth. “Don’t know. I haven’t been out there.”

“Oh. But I thought—”

So did everyone else. “Someone has to service the higher lines,” Ean said.

“Oh. Of course,” but the crewman wasn’t as awed of him after that and left abruptly once he had shown him the lines.

Ean supposed he should be used to it by now. But everyone knew the “real” tens—and the nines—were out at the confluence, trying to work out what the immense circle of power was and how it worked. Not that anyone seemed to have come up with an answer yet—and they’d had six months to investigate it.

When the confluence had first been discovered, the media had been full of speculation about what it was. Some said it was a ball of matter that exuded energy on the same wavelength as that of the lines, while others said it was a piece of void space intruding into real space. Some even said it was the original source of the lines.

Six months later, with the Alliance and Gate Union/Redmond on the brink of war, media speculation had changed. It was a weapon designed by the Alliance to destroy all linesmen. It was a weapon designed by Gate Union, in conjunction with the linesmen, to destroy the Alliance. New speculation said it was an experiment of Redmond’s gone wrong. They were known to experiment with the lines.

Ean had no idea what it was, but he was sure he could find out—if only Rigel would send him out to the confluence to work, like the other nines and tens.

He was a ten, Ean reminded himself. Certified by the Grand Master himself. As good as any other ten. He sighed and turned to his job.