Apex Book Company

From fifty-four stories up, the city of Old Atlanta spread in a panorama of skyscrapers. Lit by the last burn of the setting sun, it sparkled and shimmered with illusory fire.

H.D. stepped closer to the wall of tinted gray windows lining his executive office. He peered over the rim of the false horizon—his office’s Berber carpet—and looked down.

Too far. Too far down.

Two steps back brought him to the sanctuary of his desk. Centered as far away from the enclosing bank of windows as it was possible to be, his mahogany desk was an oasis, anchored in the sea of beige and brown carpet weave.

“Shades,” he gasped into the voice receiver on his console. At his command, the windows opaqued to a comforting, matte black. “Lights, ambient only.” Incandescent bulbs lit the room, giving the warm illusion of torchlight. With the windows blackened and the faux firelight, he could pretend he was safely tucked away underground rather than on the top floor, exposed to the open sky.

He stroked his fingertips over the polished wood of his desktop. It was a less distressing symbol of how much he was worth, this real, dead tree; the chaos of the wilderness transformed into order and utility for his pleasure.

The com-unit buzzed, announcing Soaces, his assistant. Soaces looked as he always did. His Italian suit creased where suits should crease and lay smooth where suits should be unlined. His bone-white face turned to his employer. Deadpan, it was the same expression he had worn when he’d learned that his wife, pregnant with their unborn child, had died, crushed beneath a faulty gear shaft in the factories. It was the only expression he ever wore now.

“What is it?” H.D. said.

“The takeover of Renewal Enterprises is complete. The last appropriations hurdle capitulated under pressure from our lobbyists.”

H.D. verified this information with an eye blink command to his data lenses. “You came here personally to tell me that?”

“Sir, are you certain you wish to purchase this company? Its portfolio is unlike your usual acquisitions. Accounting reiterates there will be a zero profit margin once all of the accrued debts have been dealt with. Even if you sell off—”

“I’m aware of the financial repercussions.”

“It is not only a question of the lack of profitability, but the potential public outcry—”

“I know, Soaces.” Renewal Enterprises had massive civic approval. It was the only major corporation that recruited management-level employees from the Luddites—that segment of the population too poor to afford developmental implants and neural Internet connections for their children.

“Sir, Ms. Sephone of Renewal Enterprises is in your reception area. She is requesting an audience with you.”

“Portia?” It had been ten years since H.D. had seen her last, yet her name could still cause his heart to trip and gallop in his chest. “Without her mother?”

“She is alone.”

“How unlike her. Show her in.”

Portia stormed into the office, a force of nature unleashed, while Soaces executed a tactful withdrawal. Her wheat-brown hair threw off highlights of copper and bronze in the artificial torchlight.

“How dare you?” she demanded. “How could you?”

Once her very presence had overwhelmed him. But he was no longer young, struck by puppy love, or unworldly.

“If you mean my acquisition of your mother’s company, it was easy.” He kept his tone as impassive as the twilight sky outside. “Your accounts are in a deplorable state.”

Portia’s eyes glinted. Those fascinating eyes, they were the delicate green of new leaves. “Mother and I have worked hard to make Renewal what it is. It doesn’t have a vested interest in any of the industries Abydos involves itself in. Why are you doing this?”

“It’s what my company does. It’s just business.”

“It’s not ‘just business’ to us.”

“Not my problem.” He turned his back to her wide-eyed fury.

The carpet absorbed the sound of her footsteps; he only knew she had crossed the room by her hand on his elbow. “Harou, please. Won’t you let Renewal go? For old times sake?”

For old times sake. He brushed away her hand. “Don’t call me that.”

“What?” Momentary confusion softened the expression on her face.

“No one calls me Harou anymore.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just H.D. now.”

“How very efficient of you.”

He met her anger without flinching. “I built my company by being efficient. I’ve got a lot invested in Renewal, too much to drop my claim on it. If that’s all you came for, I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

He sensed it when she switched tactics, when she realized that he wasn’t going to fold to her will. “Ha—H.D. what happened to you? You weren’t always this ruthless. You used to be—”

“Softer? Gentler?” He sneered. “I grew up.”

“I was going to say ‘reasonable.’”

“A takeover of your company with the state your market shares are in is not unreasonable.” Although Soaces was right, there’d be precious little profit, even after he’d liquidated all of Renewal’s assets and released the employees. But that wasn’t why he wanted it.

“You’re going to destroy us, aren’t you? Tear us apart and sell us to the highest bidder.”

“That’s the plan.”

“There’s more to the company than the money. You’ll eliminate so many people’s livelihoods. Good people. Without Renewal, some of them won’t have any other alternatives.”

“Alternative to what? Luddite jobs? Machine labor?” He chose his next words, enunciating each syllable with relish. “It’s all they’re good for, isn’t it? Can’t have the un-teched getting above their station.”

Portia dropped her gaze. “I never said that.”

“But you didn’t deny it.”

“I was young.”

H.D. pulled his lips away from his teeth, more a snarl than smile. “So was I.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. H.D. waited for her to leave.

“You’re doing this to hurt mother, aren’t you? For what she said, for getting between us.”

“She wouldn’t have gotten between us if you hadn’t let her.”

“Don’t make this about us. People will suffer; we employ whole families of un-teched. What will happen to them if you let them all go?”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Harou, please.”

He let her slip go, unrebuked. This confrontation no longer interested him. He contemplated the woman before him. She had been pretty with the clear-eyed promise of beauty before. She had grown into that promise and, impossibly, was lovelier than he remembered.

“Have dinner with me, Portia. I’m tired and hungry. If you insist upon playing this scene through, at least let’s set it someplace pleasant.”

She frowned. “What? Y—you’re asking me out?”

“I’m asking you in. Nothing fancy. Just a meal prepared by Soaces.”

“I’d like to stop at home first.”

“To check in with Mommy?”

“No.” Her voice was cold. “I’d like to download some earning reports and a productivity analysis from our private database. I’m sure once you see them you’ll change your mind about buying us.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. But, as you like. I’ll have my driver pick you up in an hour.”

H.D. watched Portia leave—the way her hair rippled in a heavy mantle down her back, the willowy curve of her waist, the grace of her step—all the nuances he thought he’d forgotten. He waited until he heard the door snick shut behind her, and then waited longer still for the fine tremor in his hands to disappear before blinking the sequence command that put him in communication with Soaces. The translucent likeness of Soaces, incongruous apron over his impeccable suit and ladle in hand, shimmered into focus on his data lenses. H.D. found the distortion off-putting, one of the side effects of having his neural implant installed as an adult rather than an infant.

“Yes, sir?”

“Portia will be joining me for dinner. Please have Sharon retrieve her in an hour from her mother’s estate.”

“Of course.”

H.D. put his head in his hands and closed his eyes to the shivering image. “Soaces, what am I going to do?”

“Sir?”

“I’m still in love with her.”

“I was unaware you had a history with Ms. Sephone.” Soaces put aside the ladle. “One might think your relationship was the impetus for purchasing Renewal Enterprises.”

“Of course it is. But seeing her again, remembering everything that happened between us. I don’t think I can do it.”

“You could release your majority shares back into the marketplace.”

“No. If I don’t finish things between us, one way or another, I’ll never be free of her.”

“It ended so badly between you?”

“It was her mother, Dmitra. I wasn’t a Techling so I wasn’t good enough for her daughter.”

“Are not the Sephones progressive on the matter of technological caste?”

“Ironic, isn’t it? Renewal’s PR does a good job vaunting the company’s policy—equal opportunity for all blah blah—but at its core, it’s as blinkered as the rest of them.”

“I was not aware of the dichotomy.”

“Most people aren’t.”

“If I may presume, why did you invite Ms. Sephone to dinner?”

“I don’t know.” H.D. waved his hand. “This isn’t your concern. I’ll deal with it.” He blinked the connection closed before Soaces could reply.

His eyes burned, and he was beginning to get a headache—another side effect of his less—privileged upbringing. Pulling the storage tray from his desk, H.D. plucked the data lenses from his eyes and dropped them in. He wondered, for the thousandth time, what it would be like, growing up with neural net access round the clock, without the risk of crippling headaches and nausea.

He paced the dimensions of his office suite, watching the chronometer count down the seconds and minutes. Gradually, the warning pangs in his head diminished and faded to a residual hum.

His com-unit pinged. H.D. flicked open the talk-talk switch. When the stamina of his wetware flagged, there was always classic hardware. But it was so clunky, so slow.

Soaces’ high-D image flashed up. “Sharon is just now pulling up with Ms. Sephone.”

“Go ahead and seat her in my dining room. I’ll be down shortly.”

His private lift sped him from the top floor to the underground—his living quarters beneath the building. Ears popping from the change in altitude, he stepped off the platform and into the dimly lit foyer. The gentle strains of Prokofiev’s fifth symphony percolated through concealed speakers at a discreet volume.

Portia had changed out of her Spartan business ensemble and donned a soft green evening gown that frothed chiffon at her wrists and décolleté. It brought out the color of her eyes. Poised against the backdrop of his marble and gold dining room, she was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he said.

She shrugged.

H.D. pulled out the redwood chair at the head of the table. His fingers lingered over the texture, a pattern of vines and flowers, etched into the arms. He loved the irony, living flora carved into dead.

“I’ve got the last five year’s ledgers on Renewal in my neural net and I think that as soon as you see how
unprofitable—”

H.D. held up his hand. “Let’s not discuss this while we eat. You can show me what a bad business venture buying Renewal is when we’re done.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again in obvious irritation. Equally obvious was her reluctance to do anything that would turn his mood against her.

Soaces shoes whispered over the Persian rug. “Shark fin soup with anemone,” he announced, setting the first of two ebony bowls, carved into the likeness of twined serpents, before Portia.

“It smells amazing,” she said. “Our chef at home doesn’t have the knack of constructing seafood. We rarely have it.”

“It’s not constructed, ma’am. We import the meat from specialty breeders.”

Portia blanched and dropped the spoon, half-filled with steaming amber liquid, back into her bowl. “It’s meat?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh.”

H.D. spooned up a mouthful of soup as the other man made his exit. He rolled the flavor of shark—strong and musky with a delicate bouquet of seaweed—on his tongue.

“You’re missing a treat,” he said. “I don’t know anyone who can flavor shark like Soaces.”

“I’m sure it’s delicious. But you know I don’t eat flesh.”

“Would you like something else?”

“No. Don’t bother.” Portia removed her spoon from the bowl and set it in her saucer. “What’s Soaces to you, anyway? You didn’t know him when we were in school.”

H.D. swallowed a mouthful of tangy anemone. “He joined me as I was getting Abydos established. I’d just bought my fourth company and it happened to be the one he worked for. It was a very shoddy establishment—safety standards sub par, corruption in upper management—totally old school. He worked as an overseer for a pod of machinists. His wife worked in a different pod. There was an accident right before my acquisition that killed Soaces’ wife and the rest of her pod.”

“I don’t remember hearing about that.”

H.D. nodded. He’d paid a lot of money to keep quiet what he’d done to the company men responsible for that disaster. The public had lost its taste for vengeance, but H.D. found it quite savory. He always had.

“It was a long time ago. Soaces came on as my administrative assistant after that incident. He’s been invaluable. I’m lucky he also happens to be a remarkable chef.”

“Thank you, sir.” Noiselessly, Soaces appeared, brandishing a covered plate made of polished gold in each hand. Inset on the gleaming domes were tiny gemstones—peridot and topaz and ruby. Soaces removed the lids with a flourish. “Curried ostrich with brandied eel,” he announced.

“You’ve outdone yourself tonight.”

“It was my pleasure, sir, ma’am.” Soaces’ eyes skimmed over Portia’s untouched serving.

H.D. wielded his knife and fork with enthusiasm. He made it a game, trying to guess what spices Soaces had used in the meal. Curry of course. And a touch of nutmeg. There was a hint of sweetness. Perhaps cinnamon? No, too much bite. It had to be ginger.

Portia folded her hands in her lap.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something else?”

“Quite sure.”

“You’re hurting Soaces’ feelings.”

A look of dismay flitted over her face.

H.D. got no joy from teasing her. He swallowed a mouthful of now-tasteless eel. “Don’t worry about it.” He sounded gruff. He hadn’t meant to.

When Soaces returned to clear away the dishes, Portia paused him with a hand on his sleeve. “Soaces, I’m sorry. I’m sure everything was wonderful. It’s just that I don’t eat meat.”

Soaces eyed the pale fingers against his dark suit. “Not to worry, ma’am. I trust you’ll find dessert more to your liking.”

Portia let her hand fall back. “I’m sure.”

Soaces returned with two blossoms of crystal, each stemmed bowl intricately hand-blown into the shape of a perfect rose. The roses were crimson, the ruby flush emanating not from the colorless crystal, but from the scoops of frosty dessert within.

“Pomegranate sorbet,” Soaces said.

Portia picked up her spoon almost before Soaces had finished setting it down.

H.D. watched her eat. The sorbet was cool against his tongue, tart and sweet, a perfect cleanser for the palate, but he couldn’t fully enjoy it. He waited until she had finished her serving, chasing the last dribble of melted sorbet with the edge of her spoon.

“Would you like more?” he asked. “Or something else? Maybe some bread or fruit?”

“That’s not necessary. Your man Soaces can whip up an amazing sorbet.”

“Soaces is amazing in many ways. He also dabbles in nanotech engineering. His old company greatly undervalued him. But then, what can a Luddite expect?”

Portia stood. Had he finally offended her?

“Harou, do you ever wonder what it would have been like if things could have been different?” She crossed the space between them. “When Mother sent me to India, I missed you terribly.”

H.D. pushed his chair away from the table. “You didn’t have to go.”

She knelt at his feet. “I was confused and young. I didn’t know what I wanted.”

H.D. forced himself to exhale when he realized he was holding his breath. She took his nerveless fingers in her own, her touch electrifying. He sat rigid, unable to move or speak.

Her hand drifted to the zipper at her side. “I know what I want now,” she said.

He remained frozen in petrified disbelief as the gossamer and chiffon material of her dress slid from her shoulders to pool around her knees. She leaned forward and pressed her cool flesh against his trembling body.

H.D. wrapped her in his arms, jolted out of his paralysis.

Her lips were sweet as pomegranates.

# # #

“Harou, let’s get married.”

H.D. opened his eyes to even gray stone broken at intervals by elegant tapestries—here an archaic hunting scene, and there the still waters of a geometric lake. They were in his private chambers, nestled in the heart of his velvet and satin bed. He wasn’t sure when they had moved from the dining room; it had been late.

“What?”

“Marry me, Harou. It’s what we should have done ten years ago.”

H.D.’s pulse stumbled and careened at her words. “What about your mother?”

“I don’t care. I love you.”

H.D. slid a handful of Portia’s hair through his fingers. Light glittered across the bright strands like sunlight over golden tips of wheat.

“Okay.”

# # #

When they announced their engagement, Portia’s mother besieged Abydos Inc. with a squad of peace officers and an entourage of media, demanding her daughter’s return.

“I neither kidnapped nor abducted her.” H.D addressed the net reporters as their digicams recorded their exchange, and indicated the radiant woman on his arm. “Does she look like she’s being held against her will?”

Portia waved at the cameras, the picture of health and joy.

“She would never consent to this travesty,” Dmitra said.

“Dmitra, Mother.” H.D. smiled at the outrage blazoned across the older woman’s face. “Surely we can be civil to each other?”

“My daughter would never marry someone like you.”

“Someone like me? You mean a Luddite? I thought the management of Renewal was open-minded about Luddite equality.”

Dmitra paled, but her harangue did not falter. “You’ve done something to her. Seduced her, or coerced her. Else why won’t you let her come home?”

“She is home. Abydos is her home now.”

“More like her prison.”

“Mother, I love H.D,” Portia said.

“You’re not in your right mind, darling. You know I’m only interested in your happiness and welfare.”

Confusion flickered like a wintry cloud over Portia’s face. She was so easy to read, his beloved. He was braced for it, knew she would fold when she leaned in to brush her lips over his cheek.

“My love, I want to stay here with you more than anything. But let’s not start our life together like this. Let me go with her, talk to her.”

H.D. gripped her fingers. He should stay silent, just nod and let her go. “I lost you once,” he whispered. “I don’t think I could live through it again.”

Portia laughed. It sent resonant ripples coursing through him, starting low in his groin and throbbing up through his chest. He would give this woman anything she asked, the world, his soul. And it terrified him.

“You won’t lose me, darling. Tomorrow, I’ll be back. I promise. Just give me tonight to talk to Mother.”

He kissed her farewell—her lips still sweet with the memory of pomegranates—and watched as she joined her mother in the oversized, snow-white ground car. The peace officers escorted them. Ignored, the media people drifted away.

He retreated to his study, his sanctuary. Bookshelf niches lined the walls; a ubiquitous com-unit and antique tomes vied for space with ivory statues of delicate ocean shrimp posed over skeletons of pearl and coral. He dialed up several bottles of cognac and opened them all, one by one.

# # #

The strident ringing would not stop. It intruded upon his dreams where he was a king in the darkness, seated on a throne of bone with Portia at his side.

He slapped the talk-talk switch. His head felt like it was several sizes too large, and his eyes refused to focus.

“Wha—?” he mumbled. “What is it?”

“Sir, it’s Lady Sephone.” Soaces’ image crystallized on the flat screen.

Fuzzy numbers in the corner told him it was after three AM.

“Patch her through.”

Garbed in a flowing housecoat, her shining hair in disarray, Dmitra’s simulacrum juxtaposed over Soaces’ immaculate one.

“Hello, Dmitra.”

“What did you do to her?” The woman pounced to the offensive. “You were always strange around her, even when you were at school. I never trusted you. Is it money you’re after? Extortion?”

H.D. struggled to part the haze in his mind. “Something’s the matter with Portia?”

“She’s calling for you.” More bracing than the strident accusations were the tears in the older woman’s eyes. “She’s dying.”

Dmitra severed the connection.

Her parting words were as jolting as ice water sluiced over his body. “Soaces. Soaces!”

“Sir?”

“Have Sharon start up the bi-craft.”

H.D. sprinted to the express lift, not waiting for confirmation.

Soaces was already there, holding the door for him when he arrived on the landing pad. Sharon launched them into the night sky as soon as they meshed in.

Traffic was light at that hour. But even though Sharon broke several speed restrictions and cut through an off limits fly zone in order to shear minutes off, H.D. clutched his armrest, trembling with impatience.

When the Sephone estate came into view, H.D. ripped away the safety mesh and unlatched the door almost before the landing routine had fully engaged. A phalanx of Sephone security guards stood ready, but he didn’t need them to show him the way.

Portia’s suite was nearly unchanged from the way he remembered it. It was always springtime in Portia’s room. The miniature rowan tree shading her bed was a little larger, a little fuller, but the cherry blossom holoprints were the same, shimmering their pale pink and white blooms on her walls. Every time he saw them, he could almost smell the elusive perfume of tiny budding flowers—a suggestion of sweetness hovering at the fringes of his perception.

Dmitra stood in the corner, pale and rigid.

“Save her,” she said. “I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Medics and technicians swarmed about, busy with patches and needles around the bed. Their white uniforms and masks were incongruous and stark against the genetically crafted grapevines that twisted around the frame.

Portia screamed—a terrified, frenzied cry. Her body thrashed on the mattress, bent backwards in a violent convulsion.

H.D. rushed to her, knocking aside the medics in his path. “Darling, I’m here.” He took her up in his arms, ignoring the cluster of tubes running through and around her.

Her eyes wide, she clutched him to her, dragged him in for a kiss. Surprised, he tasted the sweetness of her tongue, bitter with an undercurrent of fear. She released him and fell back, her breath rasping out. He pushed a lock of her wheat-fire hair away, now damp and plastered to her face, and set her down on the bed as though she were made of spun sugar. She was so pale. Her pulse fluttered like the wings of a butterfly against his fingers.

The medics took charge of her, logging her vitals, slapping gel patches on tube-free expanses of skin.

Dmitra was there; her long fingers clutched at his arm, red nails digging into his flesh. “What did you do?”

“Nothing, I—”

“Don’t lie to me. They pumped her up with tranqs and narcos, and they couldn’t help her. All you do is touch her and she comes out of it?”

“How long was she like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably about an hour, sir,” Soaces said.

H.D. and Dmitra both swiveled to him. Soaces stood in the back of the room, sheltered by veins of night blooming honeysuckle. His eyes, those paler-than-pale blue eyes that never registered anything—hurt, fear, joy—they glowed as though a fire lit him from within. “Another hour and she would have died. Like my wife died, in agony and terror.”

He laughed. The sound shivered H.D. through. It was icy frigid and insane. Soaces pointed at Dmitra, and she recoiled as though he aimed a shooter. “You Techlings, so high above us. You think our lives are nothing. Disposable.” He spat on the wilderness-green carpet.

H.D. stared at his man as though he’d never seen him before. “What did you do?”

“I made a virus. A perfect, beautiful virus. My wedding gift to you. It’s a seamless parasite for her neural implant. Ironic, isn’t it? That thing which they hold above us, their privileged tech, was the vehicle.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She ingested it. I programmed it to cross the blood brain barrier, engineered it for her and you. Except she didn’t eat.” He cackled. “That worried me. Until the sorbet.”

H.D. crossed the room in two strides and plowed his fist into the other man’s face. Soaces pitched from his feet and staggered into a cherry blossom wall. The holoprint rippled.

“What did you do to her?” He wrapped his hands around Soaces’ jacket lapels.

Soaces grinned. “I did it for you. You still love her, you said. And what is love? It’s just a flare in the brain. I created the spark. I planted it in her wetware. I made her love you.”

H.D. dropped Soaces and watched the other man sag to the floor.

“Every time she touches you,” Soaces continued, “every time she’s near you, the virus triggers the area in her brain which is passion, devotion, adoration. She will never leave you now.” He giggled. “She can’t or she’ll die. I was waiting, sir. Waiting to use the virus on a Techling for myself. But this is so much better. None of them could replace my wife. Let me be the first to congratulate you—”

A needle of lightning flashed through Soaces’ chest. It smashed its way through his body, leaving behind a blackened char over his heart. The stench of sizzling meat replaced the hint of cherry blossom bouquet.

Dmitra stood with a shooter still humming in her hands. A myriad of emotions—hate, despair, fury—flew across the woman’s face. The weapon jolted to cover H.D.

“Dmitra.” H.D. kept his tone even, careful. “If you kill me, Portia may die.”

Dmitra’s death-claw grip on the shooter faltered. “I know.” She lowered it and it thudded to the carpet, heavy black metal against the grassy pile.

“I swear I’ll set all my R&Ders to finding a cure,” H.D. said. “I didn’t want this.”

Dmitra’s voice was blank, monotone. “Even if I have to pull all of Renewal’s resources, I’ll find a way to free her from you. I’ll find a way.”

# # #

H.D. stood in his penthouse office at the top of the fifty-four-story skyscraper with the windows clear and open to the sky. Beneath him, the rooftops and spires of Old Atlanta spread like a gray tapestry, the chill of a long winter heavy on the cityscape.

He’d held Portia in his arms last night, as he’d done every night since the wedding. In the dim light of his bedchamber, he’d looked into her eyes. Beneath the adoration Soaces had promised him, beneath the veneer of passion and love, he’d seen it. He had seen the helpless hatred there.

On his monitor were the results of Dmitra’s search for her daughter’s cure. Her scientists and researchers had found a way to alleviate the symptoms, temporarily. She’d have six months—six months that Portia might be able to remain away from him. After that, the pains would return unless she came back—the deep aches that sliced through her, followed by convulsions, respiratory distress, and finally death. But for now, she could go to her mother.

H.D. had built a garden for her after the wedding, planted it with flowering vines and lush trees. In the middle, a graceful cherry tree arched. This morning, droplets of red had sprung from it, first buds like flecks of blood. Portia wouldn’t see them. Spring would never be his season.

END

---

Eugie Foster calls home a mildly-haunted, fey-infested house in Metro Atlanta that she shares with her husband, Matthew, and her pet skunk, Hobkin. She is an active member of the SFWA, winner of the Phobos Award, and Managing Editor of Tangent. Her fiction has been translated into Greek, Hungarian, Polish, and French, and has been nominated for the British Fantasy and Pushcart Awards. Her publication credits include stories in Realms of Fantasy, The Third Alternative, Paradox, Cricket, Fantasy Magazine, Cicada, and anthologies Hitting the Skids in Pixeltown, edited by Orson Scott Card; forthcoming DAW anthology Heroes in Training, edited by Jim C. Hines and Martin H. Greenberg; and Writers for Relief, edited by Davey Beauchamp—a charity anthology to benefit the survivors of Hurricane Katrina with contributions from Brian W. Aldiss, Gardner Dozois, Joe Haldeman, Nancy Kress, and Larry Niven. Visit her online at www.eugiefoster.com.

-

---

Eugie Foster’s story “Nothing of Me” appears in the Apex Publications anthology Aegri Somnia. Order your copy today.