Skyler White - Tor/Forge Blog



New Releases: 1/2/18

Happy New Release Day! Here’s what went on sale today.

The God Gene by F. Paul Wilson

Placeholder of  -81 A million or so years ago, a gene designated hsa-mir-3998 appeared as if by magic from the junk DNA of the hominids who eventually evolved into Homo sapiens. It became a key player in brain development—specifically creativity—and laymen started calling it “the God Gene.” Keith had been tracking this gene through the evolutionary tree, and was excited by an odd blue-eyed primate he brought back from East Africa. But immediately after running the creature’s genetic code, he destroyed all the results and vanished.

Metaltown by Kristen Simmons

Place holder  of - 36 The rules of Metaltown are simple: Work hard, keep your head down, and watch your back. You look out for number one, and no one knows that better than Ty. She’s been surviving on the factory line as long as she can remember. But now Ty has Colin. She’s no longer alone; it’s the two of them against the world. That’s something even a town this brutal can’t take away from her. Until it does.


The Collapsing Empire by John Scalzi

Game of Shadows by Erika Lewis

Jericho’s Road and Hard Trail to Follow by Elmer Kelton

The Skill of Our Hands by Steven Brust and Skyler White

Valley of the Shadow by Ralph Peters


Alice & Zoroku Vol. 3 Story and art by Tetsuya Imai

Dreamin’ Sun Vol. 5 Story and art by Ichigo Takano

Hatsune Miku Presents: Hachune Miku’s Everyday Vocaloid Paradise Vol. 2 Story and art by Ontama


Fantasy Firsts Sweepstakes

It’s November, which means we are entering the last month of our Fantasy Firsts program. We wanted to say thank you with a special sweepstakes, featuring ALL the titles we highlighted this past year. That’s 40 fantastic reads from 40 different series to add to your TBR stack! Plus, we’re including an added bonus: two sandblasted book dragon mugs, so you can enjoy your coffee or tea in style while you read.

Sign up for a chance to win:

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Fantasy Firsts Sweepstakes


  1. ELIGIBILITY: The Fantasy Firsts Sweepstakes (the “Sweepstakes“) is open only to persons who as of the date of entry (and, if a winner, as of the date of prize fulfillment) are a legal resident of the 50 United States, District of Columbia or Canada (excluding Quebec) and who are 13 years of age or older. We are sorry for the geographic restrictions, unfortunately it is required for various legal reasons. Persons who as of the date of entry (and, if a winner, as of the date of prize fulfillment) are an employee of Tom Doherty Associates (“Sponsor“) or any of Sponsor’s Affiliates (as defined in Section 5), and members of the immediate family or household (whether or not related) of any such employee, are not eligible. Eligibility determinations will be made by Sponsor in its discretion and will be final and binding. U.S. law governs this Sweepstakes. Void in Quebec and where prohibited by law.
  1. HOW TO ENTER: The entry period for the Sweepstakes begins at 9:00 a.m. Eastern Time (ET) on Wednesday, November 1, 2017 and continues through 11:59 p.m. ET on Sunday, November 19, 2017 (the “Entry Period“). No purchase is necessary. Any entrant who is under 18 years of age or otherwise under the legal age of majority in the jurisdiction in which the entrant resides (a “Minor“) must obtain permission to enter from his or her parent or legal guardian, and the agreement of the parent or legal guardian to these Official Rules, prior to entry. To enter the Sweepstakes, during the Entry Period, entrants must access, complete and submit the Sweepstakes entry form (which will require entrant to submit his or her e-mail address and such other information as Sponsor may require), found in entrant’s Facebook newsfeed or alternatively by visiting Sponsor’s website located at (the “Website”) and following the on screen entry instructions. The Facebook entry form may be pre-filled with information provided by the Facebook platform. There is a limit of one entry per person and per email address. All entries must be completed and received by Sponsor prior to the conclusion of the Entry Period. Entry times will be determined using Sponsor’s computer, which will be the official clock for the Sweepstakes. Normal time rates, if any, charged by the entrant’s Internet or mobile service provider will apply. All entries are subject to verification at any time. Proof of submission does not constitute proof of entry. Sponsor will have the right, in its discretion, to require proof of identity and/or eligibility in a form acceptable to Sponsor (including, without limitation, government-issued photo identification). Failure to provide such proof to the satisfaction of Sponsor in a timely manner may result in disqualification.
  1. WINNER SELECTION AND NOTIFICATION: Following the conclusion of the Entry Period, one (1) potential Grand Prize winner(s) will be selected in a random drawing conducted by Sponsor or its agent from among all eligible entries received during the Entry Period. The odds of winning will depend on the number of eligible entries received. The potential winner will be notified by e-mail (sent to the e-mail address provided by the entrant when entering), or using other contact information provided by the potential winner, in Sponsor’s discretion. If the initial notification requires a response, the potential winner must respond to Sponsor’s initial notification attempt within 72 hours. The potential winner is subject to verification of eligibility and may, in Sponsor’s discretion, be required to complete, sign and return to Sponsor an Affidavit of Eligibility/Release of Liability or an Affirmation of Eligibility/Release of Liability, as determined by Sponsor, and, if legally permissible, a Publicity Release, collectively, a “Declaration and Release” for residents of Canada) and any other documentation provided by Sponsor in connection with verification of the potential winner’s eligibility and confirmation of the releases and grant of rights set forth herein (as applicable, “Winner Verification Documents“), within seven days of attempted delivery of same. The potential winner if a U.S. resident may also in Sponsor’s discretion be required to complete and return to Sponsor an IRS Form W-9 within seven days of attempted delivery of same. If the potential winner is a Minor, Sponsor will have the right to request that the potential winner’s parent or legal guardian sign the Winner Verification Documents on behalf of the winner, or to award the prize directly in the name of the winner’s parent or legal guardian, who in such event will be required to sign the Winner Verification Documents and/or, if a U.S. resident, an IRS Form W-9. If the potential winner is a Canadian resident, he or she will be required to correctly answer a mathematical skill testing question without mechanical or other aid to be administered via telephone, email or another manner determined by Sponsor in its discretion at a pre-arranged mutually convenient time. If the potential winner cannot be reached or does not respond within 72 hours of the initial notification attempt or fails to complete, sign, and return any required Winner Verification Documents or, if a U.S. resident, IRS Form W-9 within seven days of attempted delivery of same, or in the case of a Canadian selected entrant, fails to correctly answer the mathematical skill testing question without mechanical or other aid, or if the potential winner does not otherwise comply with these Official Rules and/or cannot accept the prize as awarded for any reason, “then the potential winner may be disqualified and an alternate winner may, at Sponsor’s discretion, be selected from among the remaining eligible entries as specified in these Official Rules (in which case the foregoing provisions will apply to such newly-selected entrant).
  1. PRIZE: One (1) Grand Prize(s) will be offered. The Grand Prize consists of one (1) hardcover copy of THE GUNS ABOVE by Robyn Bennis, one (1) trade paperback copy of RED RIGHT HAND by Levi Black, one (1) hardcover copy of ROAR by Cora Carmack, one (1) hardcover copy of THE ALCHEMY OF MASQUES AND MIRRORS by Curtis Craddock, one (1) hardcover copy of CHILD OF A HIDDEN SEA by A.M. Dellamonica, one (1) trade paperback copy of TRUTHWITCH by Susan Dennard, one (1) hardcover copy of CROSSROADS OF CANOPY by Thoraiya Dyer, one (1) hardcover copy of DEATH’S MISTRESS by Terry Goodkind, one (1) hardcover copy of STEEPLEJACK by A.J. Hartley, one (1) hardcover copy of DEADMEN WALKING by Sherrilyn Kenyon, one (1) hardcover copy of EVERY HEART A DOORWAY by Seanan McGuire, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE HUM AND THE SHIVER by Alex Bledsoe, one (1) trade paperback copy of RANGE OF GHOSTS by Elizabeth Bear, one (1) trade paperback copy of A NATURAL HISTORY OF DRAGONS by Marie Brennan, one (1) trade paperback copy of SERIOUSLY WICKED by Tina Connolly, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE LIBRARIANS AND THE LOST LAMP by Greg Cox, one (1) trade paperback copy of DANCER’S LAMENT by Ian C. Esslemont, one (1) trade paperback copy of FORGE OF DARKNESS by Steven Erikson, one (1) trade paperback copy of FINN FANCY NECROMANCY by Randy Henderson, one (1) trade paperback copy of ROYAL STREET by Suzanne Johnson, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE EYE OF THE WORLD by Robert Jordon, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE SHARDS OF HEAVEN by Michael Livingston, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE MAGIC OF RECLUCE by L.E. Modesitt, Jr., one (1) trade paperback copy of RIDERS by Veronica Rossi, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE WAY OF KINGS by Brandon Sanderson, one (1) trade paperback copy of A DARKER SHADE OF MAGIC by V.E. Schwab, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE EMPEROR’S BLADES by Brian Staveley, one (1) trade paperback copy of UPDRAFT by Fran Wilde, one (1) ARC of THE MIDNIGHT FRONT by David Mack, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE SIX-GUN TAROT by R.S. Belcher, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE DINOSAUR LORDS by Victor Milan, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE SLEEPING KING by Cindy Dees and Bill Flippin, one (1) mass market paperback copy of TOUCHSTONE by Melanie Rawn, one (1) mass market paperback copy by THE INCREMENTALISTS by Steven Brust and Skyler White, one (1) mass market paperback copy of CROWN OF VENGEANCE by Mercedes Lackey and James Mallory, one (1) mass market paperback copy of IMAGER by L.E. Modesitt, Jr., one (1) mass market paperback copy of LAMENTATION by Ken Scholes, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE ETERNA FILES by Leanna Renee Heiber, one (1) mass market paperback copy of KUSHIEL’S DART by Jacqueline Carey, and one (1) mass market paperback copy of AMERICAN CRAFTSMEN by Tom Doyle, and one (1) set of two Book dragon mugs. The approximate retail value (“ARV“) of the Grand Prize is $551.56 USD. All prize details that are not expressly specified in these Official Rules will be determined by Sponsor in its discretion. The prize will be awarded if properly claimed. No substitution, cash redemption or transfer of the right to receive the prize is permitted, except in the discretion of Sponsor, which has the right to substitute the prize or any component of the prize with a prize or prize component of equal or greater value selected by Sponsor in its discretion. The prize consists only of the item(s) expressly specified in these Official Rules. All expenses or costs associated with the acceptance or use of the prize or any component of the prize are the responsibility of the winner. The prize is awarded “as is” and without any warranty, except as required by law. In no event will more than the number of prizes stated in these Official Rules be awarded. All federal, state and local taxes on the value of the prize are the responsibility of the winner. For U.S. residents, an IRS form 1099 will be issued if required by law.
  1. RELEASE AND LIMITATION OF LIABILITY: By entering the Sweepstakes, to the fullest extent permitted by applicable law, each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and anyone who succeeds to entrant’s rights and responsibilities including without limitation entrant’s heirs, executors, administrators, personal representatives, successors, assigns, agents, and attorneys, and with respect to minors entrant’s parents and legal guardians (collectively the “Entrant Parties“) releases Sponsor, each of Sponsor’s Affiliates, the licensees and licensors other than Entrant Parties including authors of each of the foregoing, all other companies involved in the development or operation of the Sweepstakes, Facebook, the successors and assigns of each of the foregoing and the directors, officers, employees and agents of each of the foregoing (collectively, the “Released Parties“) from and against any and all claims and causes of action of any kind that entrant and/or the Entrant Parties ever had, now have or might in the future have arising out of or relating to the Sweepstakes, participation in the Sweepstakes, the use of the Website, the provision, acceptance or use of any prize or any component thereof or any use of the entrant’s name as permitted pursuant to these Official Rules, including without limitation any and all claims and causes of action: (a) relating to any personal injury, death or property damage or loss sustained by any entrant or any other person, (b) based upon any allegation of violation of the right of privacy or publicity, misappropriation, defamation, or violation of any other personal or proprietary right, (c) based upon any allegation of infringement of copyright, trademark, trade dress, patent, trade secrets, moral rights or any intellectual property right, or (d) or based upon any allegation of a violation of the laws, rules or regulations relating to personal information and data security. Each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and the Entrant Parties agrees not to assert any such claim or cause of action against any of the Released Parties. Each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and the Entrant Parties assumes the risk of, and all liability for, any injury, loss or damage caused, or claimed to be caused, by participation in this Sweepstakes, the use of the Website, or the provision, acceptance or use of any prize or any component of any prize. The Released Parties are not responsible for, and will not have any liability in connection with, any typographical or other error in the printing of the offer, administration of the Sweepstakes or in the announcement of the prize. The Released Parties are not responsible for, and will not have any liability in connection with, late, lost, delayed, illegible, damaged, corrupted or incomplete entries, incorrect or inaccurate capture of, damage to, or loss of entries or entry information, or any other human, mechanical or technical error of any kind relating to the operation of the Website, communications or attempted communications with any entrant or Entrant Parties, the submission, collection, storage and/or processing of entries or the administration of the Sweepstakes. The term “Affiliate” of Sponsor means any entity that directly or indirectly, through one or more intermediaries, controls, is controlled by, or is under common control with Sponsor. The term “control” means the possession, directly or indirectly, of the power to direct or cause the direction of management and policies of an entity, or the ownership, directly or indirectly, of more than fifty percent (50%) of the equity interests of the entity.
  1. GENERAL RULES: Sponsor has the right, in its sole discretion, to modify these Official Rules (including without limitation by adjusting any of the dates and/or timeframes stipulated in these Official Rules) and to cancel, modify or suspend this Sweepstakes at any time in its discretion, including without limitation if a virus, bug, technical problem, entrant fraud or misconduct, or other cause beyond the control of the Sponsor corrupts the administration, integrity, security or proper operation of the Sweepstakes or if for any other reason Sponsor is not able to conduct the Sweepstakes as planned (including without limitation in the event the Sweepstakes is interfered with by any fire, flood, epidemic, earthquake, explosion, labor dispute or strike, act of God or of public enemy, communications failure, riot or civil disturbance, war (declared or undeclared), terrorist threat or activity, federal, state or local law, order or regulation or court order) or in the event of any change to the terms governing the use of Facebook or the application or interpretation of such terms. In the event of termination of the Sweepstakes, a notice will be posted on the Website or Sponsor’s Facebook page and a random drawing will be conducted to award the prize from among all eligible entries received prior to the time of termination. Sponsor has the right, in its sole discretion, to disqualify or prohibit from participating in the Sweepstakes any individual who, in Sponsor’s discretion, Sponsor determines or believes (i) has tampered with the entry process or has undermined the legitimate operation of the Website or the Sweepstakes by cheating, hacking, deception or other unfair practices, (ii) has engaged in conduct that annoys, abuses, threatens or harasses any other entrant or any representative of Sponsor or (iii) has attempted or intends to attempt any of the foregoing. CAUTION: ANY ATTEMPT TO DELIBERATELY DAMAGE ANY WEBSITE OR SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM ASSOCIATED WITH THIS SWEEPSTAKES OR UNDERMINE THE LEGITIMATE OPERATION OF THIS SWEEPSTAKES IS A VIOLATION OF CRIMINAL AND CIVIL LAW. SHOULD SUCH AN ATTEMPT BE MADE, SPONSOR HAS THE RIGHT TO SEEK DAMAGES (INCLUDING ATTORNEYS’ FEES) FROM ANY PERSON INVOLVED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT PERMITTED BY LAW. The use of agents or automated devices, programs or methods to submit entries is prohibited and Sponsor has the right, in its sole discretion, to disqualify any entry that it believes may have been submitted using such an agent or automated device, program or method. In the event of a dispute regarding who submitted an entry, the entry will be deemed to have been submitted by the authorized account holder of the email address submitted at the time of entry. “Authorized account holder” means the person who is assigned an email address by an internet provider, online service provider or other organization (e.g., business, educational institute, etc.) that is responsible for assigning email addresses for the domain associated with the submitted email address. An entrant may be required to provide proof (in a form acceptable to Sponsor, including, without limitation, government-issued photo identification) that he or she is the authorized account holder of the email address associated with the entry in question. All federal, state, provincial, territorial and local laws and regulations apply. All entries become the property of Sponsor and will not be verified or returned. By participating in this Sweepstakes, entrants on behalf of themselves, and to the extent permitted by law on behalf of the Entrant Parties agree to be bound by these Official Rules and the decisions of Sponsor, which are final and binding in all respects. These Official Rules may not be reprinted or republished in any way without the prior written consent of Sponsor.
  1. DISPUTES: By entering the Sweepstakes, each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and the Entrant Parties agrees that, to the maximum extent permitted by applicable law, (a) any and all disputes, claims and causes of action arising out of or connected with the Sweepstakes, or the provision, acceptance and/or use of any prize or prize component, will be resolved individually, without resort to any form of class action (Note: Some jurisdictions do not allow restricting access to class actions. This provision will not apply to entrant if entrant lives in such a jurisdiction); (b) any and all claims, judgments and awards shall be limited to actual out-of-pocket costs incurred, including costs associated with entering the Sweepstakes, but in no event attorneys’ fees; and (c) under no circumstances will any entrant or Entrant Party be permitted to obtain any award for, and each entrant and Entrant Party hereby waives all rights to claim, punitive, special, incidental or consequential damages and any and all rights to have damages multiplied or otherwise increased and any other damages, other than for actual out-of-pocket expenses. All issues and questions concerning the construction, validity, interpretation and enforceability of these Official Rules or the rights and obligations of the entrants, Entrant Parties and Sponsor in connection with the Sweepstakes shall be governed by, and construed in accordance with, the laws of the State of New York in the United States of America without giving effect to any choice of law or conflict of law rules or provisions that would cause the application of the laws of any jurisdiction other than the State of New York. Any legal proceedings arising out of this Sweepstakes or relating to these Official Rules shall be instituted only in the federal or state courts located in New York County in the State of New York, waiving any right to trial by jury, and each entrant and Entrant Party consents to jurisdiction therein with respect to any legal proceedings or disputes of whatever nature arising under or relating to these rules or the Sweepstakes. In the event of any conflict between these Official Rules and any Sweepstakes information provided elsewhere (including but not limited in advertising or marketing materials), these Official Rules shall prevail.
  1. USE OF INFORMATION: Please review the Sponsor’s Privacy Notice at By entering the sweepstakes, entrant hereby agrees to Sponsor’s collection and use of their personal information in accordance with such Notice, including the use of entrant’s personal information to send email updates about Tor Books and other information from Sponsor and its related companies.
  1. WINNER NAME AND RULES REQUESTS:For the name(s) of the winner(s), which will be available two weeks after the conclusion of the Entry Period, or a copy of these Official Rules, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to Fantasy First Sweepstakes, Tom Doherty Associates, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Winner name requests must be received by Sponsor within six months after the conclusion of the Entry Period.
  1. Sponsor: Tom Doherty Associates, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. The Sweepstakes is in no way sponsored, endorsed or administered by, or associated with, Facebook.

© 2017 Macmillan. All rights reserved.


On the Road: Tor/Forge Author Events in March

Tor/Forge authors are on the road in March! See who is coming to a city near you this month.

Steven Brust & Skyler White, The Skill of Our Hands

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Saturday, March 18
Uncle Hugo’s
Minneapolis, MN
3:00 PM

Sunday, March 19
Borderlands Café
San Francisco, CA
3:00 PM

Friday, March 31
Book People
Austin, TX
7:00 PM
With Skyler White only.

Susan Dennard, Windwitch

Wednesday, March 1
Barnes & Noble
Bensalem, PA
6:00 PM

Thursday, March 2
One More Page
Arlington, VA
7:00 PM
Also with Jodi Meadows.

Randy Henderson, Smells Like Finn Spirit

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Wednesday, March 8
University Bookstore
Seattle, WA
7:00 PM

Thursday, March 9
LoveCraft Brewing Company
Bremerton, WA
6:00 PM
Books provided by Liberty Bay Books.

Saturday, March 18
Village Books
Bellingham, WA
7:00 PM

P.J. Hoover, Tut: My Epic Battle to Save the World

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Saturday, March 4
Book People
Austin, TX
3:00 PM

Caitlin R. Kiernan, Agents of Dreamland

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Thursday, March 9
Savoy Bookshop and Café
Westerly, RI
6:00 PM
In conversation with C.S.E. Cooney.

Monday, March 20
Porter Square Books
Cambridge, MA
7:00 PM
Also with Max Gladstone.

Thursday, March 23
Pandemonium Books and Games
Cambridge, MA
7:00 PM

Ellen Klages, Passing Strange

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Monday, March 13
Dog Eared Books
San Francisco, CA
7:00 PM
Also with M. Christian and Vylar Kaftan.

Erika Lewis, Game of Shadows

Monday, March 6
Vroman’s Bookstore
Pasadena, CA
6:30 PM

Wednesday, March 8
Mysterious Galaxy
San Diego, CA
7:30 PM
Also with R.A. Salvatore and Sheryl Scarborough.

Friday, March 10
Poisoned Pen
Scottsdale, AZ
7:00 PM
Also with Aprilynne Pike.

Saturday, March 18
Borderlands Books
San Francisco, CA
1:00 PM
Also with Veronica Rossi.

Thursday, March 23
Powell’s Books
Beaverton, OR
7:00 PM

Erin Lyon, I Love You Subject to the Following Terms and Conditions

Saturday, March 4
Hyatt Regency Sacramento
Sacramento, CA
5:00 PM
Authors on the Move Dinner – hosted by the Sacramento Public Library.

Ada Palmer, Seven Surrenders

Tuesday, March 7
57th Street Books
Chicago, IL
6:00 PM
Also with David M. Perry.

John Scalzi, The Collapsing Empire

Tuesday, March 21
Joseph-Beth Booksellers
Lexington, KY
7:00 PM

Thursday, March 23
Flyleaf Books
Chapel Hill, NC
7:00 PM

Friday, March 24
Fountain Bookstore
Richmond, VA
6:30 PM

Saturday, March 25
Parnassus Books
Nashville, TN
2:00 PM

Sunday, March 26
Book People
Austin, TX
3:00 PM

Monday, March 27
Brazos Bookstore
Houston, TX
7:00 PM

Tuesday, March 28
Half Price Books
Dallas, TX
7:00 PM

Wednesday, March 29
Volumes Bookcafé
Chicago, IL
7:00 PM

Sheryl Scarborough, To Catch a Killer

Wednesday, March 8
Mysterious Galaxy
San Diego, CA
7:30 PM
Also with R.A. Salvatore and Erika Lewis.

V.E. Schwab, A Conjuring of Light

Wednesday, March 1
Book People
Austin, TX
7:00 PM

Thursday, March 2
Blue Willow Bookshop
Houston, TX
7:00 PM

Friday, March 3
Flatiron Writer’s Room
Asheville, NC
6:00 PM
Books provided by Malaprops.

Saturday, March 4
Joseph-Beth Booksellers
Crestview Hills, KY
7:00 PM

Thursday, March 9
Changing Hands Bookstore
Phoenix, AZ
7:00 PM

Burt Solomon, The Murder of Willie Lincoln

Saturday, March 4
Barnes & Noble
Bethesda, MD
2:00 PM

Sunday, March 5
One More Page
Arlington, VA
2:00 PM


New Releases: 1/24/17

Here’s what went on sale today!

Death’s Mistress by Terry Goodkind

Death's Mistress by Terry GoodkindOnetime lieutenant of the evil Emperor Jagang, known as “Death’s Mistress” and the “Slave Queen”, the deadly Nicci captured Richard Rahl in order to convince him that the Imperial Order stood for the greater good. But it was Richard who converted Nicci instead, and for years thereafter she served Richard and Kahlan as one of their closest friends–and one of their most lethal defenders.

The Skill of Our Hands by Steven Brust & Skyler White

The Skill of Our Hands by Steven Brust & Skyler WhiteThe Incrementalists are a secret society of two hundred people—an unbroken lineage reaching back forty thousand years. They cheat death, share lives and memories, and communicate with one another across nations and time. They have an epic history, an almost magical memory, and a very modest mission: to make the world better, a little bit at a time.


Age of Wonders by David G. Hartwell

Age of Wonders by David HartwellAge of Wonders: Exploring the World of Science Fiction gives an insider’s view of the strange and wonderful world of science fiction, by one of the most respected editors in the field, David G. Hartwell (1941-2016). Like those other American art forms, jazz, comics, and rock ‘n’ roll, science fiction is the product of a rich and fascinating subculture. Age of Wonders is a fascinating tour of the origins, history, and culture of the science fiction world, written with insight and genuine affection for this wonder-filled literature, and addressed to newcomers and longtime SF readers alike.

Too Like the Lightning by Ada Palmer

Too Like the Lightning by Ada PalmerMycroft Canner is a convict. For his crimes he is required, as is the custom of the 25th century, to wander the world being as useful as he can to all he meets. Carlyle Foster is a sensayer–a spiritual counselor in a world that has outlawed the public practice of religion, but which also knows that the inner lives of humans cannot be wished away.



Passing Strange by Ellen Klages

Passing Strange by Ellen KlagesSan Francisco in 1940 is a haven for the unconventional. Tourists flock to the cities within the city: the Magic City of the World’s Fair on an island created of artifice and illusion; the forbidden city of Chinatown, a separate, alien world of exotic food and nightclubs that offer “authentic” experiences, straight from the pages of the pulps; and the twilight world of forbidden love, where outcasts from conventional society can meet.


The Girl From the Other Side: Siúil, a Rún Vol. 1 Story & Art by Nagabe


Excerpt: The Skill of Our Hands by Steven Brust and Skyler White


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The Skill of Our Hands by Steven Brust and Skyler White

The Incrementalists are a secret society of two hundred people—an unbroken lineage reaching back forty thousand years. They cheat death, share lives and memories, and communicate with one another across nations and time. They have an epic history, an almost magical memory, and a very modest mission: to make the world better, a little bit at a time.

Now Phil, the Incrementalist whose personality has stayed stable through more incarnations than anyone else’s, has been shot dead. They’ll bring him back—but first they need to know what happened. Their investigation will lead down unexpected paths in Arizona, and bring them up against corruption, racism, and brutality in high and low places alike.

But the key may lay in one of Phil’s previous lives, in “Bleeding Kansas” in the late 1850s—and the fate of the passionate abolitionist we remember as John Brown.

Steven Brust and Skyler White’s The Skill of Our Hands is the thrilling and thought-provoking follow-up to their critically acclaimed The Incrementalists.

The Skill of Our Hands will become available January 24th. Please enjoy this excerpt.


What’s Your Involvement?

Phil’s first thought when the bullet hit him was, Oh, come on.

Some of his deaths had been easy and peaceful—in his sleep, just drifting off. He knew that was true. He was sure that was true. But those were never the ones he remembered. He remembered the times he was in horrible pain from some disease, or had been executed for heresy, or had died violently in some war, or someone had just killed him on the conviction he was “up to something.” Meddlework used to be much more dangerous on several levels for several reasons, one of them being how much clumsier he—they all—used to be.

But the thing that got him about so many of his violent deaths was how casual they were. Like, whoever killed him didn’t think it was a big deal. He wasn’t a person, he was just, you know, the guy who was there.

He found that offensive.

He had only rarely, in his two thousand years, had reason to take a life. And even back when society considered life less valuable than it did now, he hadn’t committed murder without thought, without soul-searching. And more often than not, he still came to regret it. He had never taken a human life casually.

At least this time there wasn’t any pain—there was a thump, like something smacked him with a solid thud in the back of the neck, and he’d thought someone had hit him. But then he heard the report—the distinctive crack of the 9 mm—and then another hit him in the back, and another, and he was disgusted. He tried to turn around to see who’d shot him, but ended up falling onto his face. His last thought before he blacked out was, “This is so not what Ren needs to deal with right now. Fuck.”

Then the lights went out for a while.


Ren figured yoga class was an hour long for the same reason there were a hundred pages in a self-help book, even if the author’s big idea could be restated twice in half that. Twenty minutes of stretching was great, just what her body needed, but hardly worth the trip halfway across Tucson and the cost. The class was just more than she wanted. She’d get a DVD, or go back to her preferred sedentary lifestyle, except this was the best way to meet girls.

Specifically, yoga was the only way to meet Jane Astarte, whom Ren didn’t even really want to know. She wanted to know her husband. But she liked Jane. They had smiled at each other last week, after Ren’s first class, and she’d made a note of Jane’s shoes—red floral Toms. Today, Ren had arrived late. After class, Jane helped her find her oh-so-mysteriously missing moccasin. It had gotten into Jane’s cubby somehow, and they had chatted all the way to the parking lot. They said good-bye at Ren’s car.

And that’s where Ren was still, with her head between her legs, when Jane circled back around and found her.

“Ren?” she called. “Are you okay?”

The parking lot asphalt burned Ren’s ass through her yoga pants but she was shivering. She needed to swallow, but there was no spit in her mouth. She closed her eyes and tried to taste root beer, or smell the brackish funk of her quiet, mental Garden, but someone was calling to her.

“Ren? Are you okay?” Jane clambered out of her car, leaving it running, and the bing-binging of its open door made as much sense to Ren as words did.

“I need to go to the hospital,” she told Jane. “UMC.”

“Okay.” Jane threw Ren’s yoga bag in the back of her car. She picked up the phone Ren had dropped when she stood up, and put it in Ren’s lap. Ren stared at the screen. Six missed calls and a string of texts. The amount of activity had been her first alarm. The dangerous calm of Jimmy’s voice mail had been the second: “Ren, I’m booking a flight to Tucson, but I won’t leave Paris until I hear from you that I’m not needed in the Garden.”

Jane pulled out of the parking lot. “Did you faint?” she asked. “Do you need some water?”

Ren shook her head. She still couldn’t swallow, but Jane deserved some explanation, so Ren put her phone on speaker and replayed the voice mail message—the first one. It had come in halfway through yoga, but Ren had heard it only after scrolling through texts from Ramon and Oskar, who said they were on their way, but didn’t say why.

“This is Amy Schiller at University Medical Center calling for Renee Mathers,” said the voice mail. “I’m sorry, but we have Charles Purcell here in surgery. He had your phone number on an information card in his pocket. You can call me back at this number or just come in through emergency and ask at the triage desk for Amy or the social worker on call.”

“Oh, sweetie!” Jane reached out and squeezed Ren’s knee. “Is Charles your…”

“We live together.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jane said.

Some insulated bureaucratic part of Ren’s brain noted this fit the meddlework profile she and Phil had been compiling on Jane.

This. It’s exactly this kind of casual attitude to profile compilation—the sifting of your e-mails and diaries, doodles and rituals—that demands greater transparency from us. People are encoding more in symbol than ever before, so we see more of you, and must show you more of us.


Ren knew Jane was deeply compassionate, taught high school English, and practiced Wicca. She was also the reason Ren was taking yoga halfway across town.

“I’m sure Charles is going to be fine,” Jane said. “UMC is very good.”

“Phil,” Ren said. “He goes by Phil.”


“He—” Ren started, but couldn’t. “I always thought I’d know if something happened to him,” she said. “But I don’t know anything right now.”

Jane squeezed her knee again. “You don’t have to.”

“Thank you,” Ren said, wondering whether it was a mole or a zit on Jane’s chin. Either way, it helped her look the witch part—that, and the size of her nose. It was too big and out of place in the pretty, suburban rest of her. It was also the least reasonable thing for Ren to be pondering with Phil possibly dead or probably dying and Ramon, Jimmy, and Oskar already on their way to Tucson.

“I’ll park and come find you,” Jane said, pulling up to the emergency room doors behind a Lexus convertible.

Ren couldn’t tell her not to bother, that she’d be fine. “Thank you,” she said again. She wasn’t fine. She got out of Jane’s car and went inside to ask about Chuck Purcell, even though what she needed to know wasn’t anything a nurse or social worker could tell her. She needed the Garden, and a mind calm enough to reach it. She needed Phil, and even though she knew it shouldn’t matter, she needed him in the body she loved, the lanky, forty-two-year-old body with the one crooked toe and the mustache-cloaked dimples—Chuck’s body, the one dying just beyond the information desk.


The Garden was a strange place when you were dying.

It was a strange place anyway, what with being a product of your subconscious, blended with everyone else’s at the edges. But when you were dying, things got really weird there.

Phil was in his atrium, and then he was outside in the olive grove, and then he was on the other side, where his imaginary Garden bordered Ren’s. To him, her Garden appeared as a lush green valley dotted with windmills—put whatever Freudian spin on that you care to.

Phil stood above it looking down, and then he was back in his villa, flat on his back, staring up at a chandelier he didn’t have.

Confused? Yeah, so was he.

He fought to control it; to stay in one place. There was something he wanted to do, and he knew it was important even though he couldn’t think what it was.

He stood up, tried to walk, and stumbled over a tall vase filled with cattails. He cursed it for being in his way, and remembered that it was the seed of, of something.

That was it; he needed to seed the shooting.

Did he have anything useful to record and share with the others? He had been shot. Not a lot of details in that. He wanted to talk to Ren about it, but she wasn’t there. He was alone—where? His Garden, right. Seed the shooting.

He was still alive, anyway. You can’t get to the Garden while you’re dead, you’re just planted in it. Something about that struck him as funny, and he laughed, but then couldn’t remember what he was laughing about.

He wondered, if he went into Ren’s Garden—her Garden as represented in his Garden—if he’d feel closer to her. He picked up the vase, trying to remember what seed it contained, and wondering if maybe it had something to do with getting shot. He felt like it probably did, but couldn’t think why. Why—?

Oh, right.

Why had he been shot?

Now there was a question worth exploring.

Consciousness in the real world and awareness in the Garden don’t strictly go together, but neither are they entirely separate. As you fade in the real world, your Garden starts to waver, and at some point you go so far down that you can’t hold the image. Phil didn’t understand how deep you had to go under to be unable to walk the Garden, but he’d only had a couple of thousand years to look at the question.

Phil considered asking Ray about it. But Ray was dead. Then again, Phil was dead too, or dying. Wait, no, Ray was alive again, spiked into a woman’s body this time. He’d come to visit them when—

The light faded, then came back brighter than ever; something to do with dying in the real world, or waking up, or maybe even surgical lights in his semiconscious eyes.

Phil made a pen and paper appear in his hand. He wrote, “This isn’t leaving. I’m coming back,” and folded it into a paper airplane and sent it to Ren’s Garden.

Then he blacked out or went under or died or something.


Ren spoke to a redheaded nurse named Jenny who said Charles Purcell had been shot three times and was still in surgery. Ren spoke to a plainclothes police officer who asked if she knew what a law-abiding guy was doing on the southside. Ren thought she’d never seen a flattop that bristle-flat, and the cop said he’d never seen a woman who really knew what her man did away from home. He kept asking questions, and she answered them until his phone rang. He answered, listened, and after that, he was done with Ren.

She called Jimmy in Paris, who very gently told her that the fish pool in his Garden was nearly transparent—dangerously more air than water—which told Ren more about the fragility of Phil’s condition than any medical information could have. Ren thanked him and closed her eyes. In the blank sky over her Garden mudflats, a tiny puff of cloud unfolded, like corn popping in slow motion, “I’ll be back” scrawled across its belly.

It gusted away, but Ren brought it back, and made it swell, darker and fatter, until it thundered and rained, drenching her in him. “We’ll call Dr. Freud for a consult on that one,” Phil would have said, if he were there.

Which he wasn’t.

“Hi.” Jane touched Ren’s arm. “How’re you doing?”

“We were going to get married in the fall,” Ren said. “If he dies, I’m telling everyone he got cold feet.”

Jane looked at Ren before she laughed, sitting down beside her. “He’ll never live it down,” she said with a credibly straight face.

“The nurse said it could go either way,” Ren said. “I think it’s weird that there are only two options for something that important, but you’re dead or you’re not. Married or not.” Ren sagged into the waiting room vinyl.

Jane nodded slowly, hiding a smile. “They’re only mostly the same thing,” she said.

Ren elbowed her, glad to have been yanked back. “Don’t feel like you need to stay with me, Jane.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I wasn’t really ready to go home anyway.”

“Oh? Too quiet?” Ren probed.

“Too small. My husband and I both teach high school. Every summer our house shrinks.”

“What do you teach?”


“And your husband?”

“History. Civics.”

“At the same school?”

Jane shook her head with a hint of a blush. “No. I’m at Howenstine, just around the corner. He’s at Southside.”

“Is that how you met?” Ren asked, and just like that, she was working again, gathering the information she’d started taking yoga to try and collect. She focused on each moment, paying close attention to the way Jane covered her mouth with her hand when she laughed, and to what made her sit forward in the uncomfortable chair. Ren wished she’d prepared even one of Jane’s switches before class—maybe the cedar whiff of her best friend’s deep-closet clubhouse—to trigger trust so Jane would open up about her husband. “It must be tough to be young liberal teachers in a state that’s still trying to get anti-evolution legislation on the books,” she guessed.

Jane sat back and crossed her leg away from Ren. “It is hard,” she said.

Ren noted the withdrawal. She would need to sidle up to politics more subtly next time.

Every time


“You have to learn to separate personal and professional.” Jane made a guillotine of her pinky finger against her open palm. Her voice had the tightness of a mother saying to be a big girl and not cry. “But what are we doing talking about me when you’re the one with a Major Life Event unfolding right now?” she asked Ren.

“We’re keeping me from cycling obsessively through the text, mail, and voice apps on my phone, or through worse things in my head,” Ren said, mentally filing Jane’s chopped separation of person and politics to seed later when she got back to her Garden. “Without you, I’d be sitting here trying to conjure a smiling surgeon through that door or attempting to keep Phil’s heart beating with the sheer force of my will.”

Ren knew Jane was a Wiccan, but right now, if Jane told her about creating her own reality, Ren was going to have trouble forgiving her enough to do good meddlework. “Do you believe we can do that?” she asked anyway.

“You mean do I think there’s anything you can do from here to help Phil in there?”

Ren didn’t trust her voice; she nodded.

“No,” Jane said.

“Me either.”

“You could pray.”

Ren untwisted her hands and looked at Jane. “It wouldn’t help.”

“Not him,” Jane agreed. “Maybe you.”

“He helps me.”

“I know.” Jane squeezed Ren’s knee, and didn’t tell her that things work out in the end, or that everything happens for a reason.

Ren closed her eyes, and let it rain.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Brust and Skyler White

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A Conversation Between Steven Brust and Skyler White

The Incrementalists by Steven Brust and Skyler WhiteWelcome back to Fantasy Firsts. Our program continues with a conversation between the co-authors of The IncrementalistsSteven Brust and Skyler White discuss writing, collaboration, and walking through someone else’s house in the dark. The next book in their series, The Skill of Our Hands, will become available January 24th.

Skye: At the Fourth Street Fantasy Convention this year, I was part of a panel that picked apart the differences and dividing lines between gut churn, writer’s block, and depression, the consensus being that all writers deal with these things, you and Ray Bradbury being the requisite counter-examples.

Steve: Depression has never been an issue for me, nor, so far, has writer’s block — at least, based on what my understanding of writer’s block is. There are times when I haven’t known what happens next for several days, but I don’t think that’s the same thing. My guess is that it’s something constitutional, something inherent that I can’t take credit for. Wish I could say something useful.

Skye: So what happens in those several days?

Steve: Internally, or externally? Externally, I stomp around the house, glaring at everyone, and threatening to kill the dog, until I finally get it, at which time everything gets better, and I realize how much I was enjoying it, and I apologize to everyone I’ve offended, and I threaten to kill the dog. Internally, I run through all of the advice I give students at Viable Paradise for figuring out the next scene (which even works, sometimes). I constantly remind myself, “You’ve been here before, it’s part of the process, chill out, it’ll come together.” I reread what I have so far. I run through lists of what can happen. I completely ignore the book and try to think about other things. I write imaginary reviews in my head, culminating in the mythical reviewer saying, “The best moment was when…” and try to fill that sentence in to describe the thing I can’t write. Eventually, some combination of those comes together and life is good again. Except for the dog. I still threaten to kill him. He wags his tail.

Skye: You know, I think I’ve internalized that — not the dog, but the voice. I still do more pre-planning for my solo work than we do for ours, but I do a lot less than I used to. Writing has always felt to me like walking through someone else’s house in the dark. You’ve made me a little less cautious, if no less leery of dogs.

Steve: We’ve spoken a lot about how much fun collaboration is; when doing your solo work, where do you find the fun?

Skye: Honestly? I have less fun. Or a different kind of fun, anyway. Working together — sending pages to you the moment I’m done writing, getting immediate feedback, waiting to see what you do next — is a kind of giddy fun I just don’t have writing on my own. The solo fun is more muscular, slower, like the difference between skipping and stretching. I love doing it and I love finally getting to share it. I like that it lets me go deep into places that are my peculiar interests and down my personal rabbit holes — I write more about sex, less about politics.

Steve: So here’s a political question: if the Incrementalists were real, what would you most like them to be working on?

Skye: One of the things that fascinated me in my Yeats research was the debate that surrounded the idea of corporate personhood. It’s one of those pivots where I wonder how things would be different now had things gone differently then. It’s proved a sneaky work-around to our nation’s ideal of being governed by laws rather than leaders. If no person — or corporation — was above the law, I wonder whether we’d be a flatter, fairer nation. In the book, we talk about Celeste raking power up. I’d have the Incrementalists out there working on scraping it back, flattening the distribution of money and influence.

Steve: How has collaborating changed your approach to your solo work?

Skye: The chance to listen in on the, “You’ve been here before, it’s part of the process, chill out, it’ll come together,” voice — and even borrow it sometimes. It’s one of the most valuable things I’ve gotten from you in the process of writing together. Where did you get it?

Steve: That one’s easy: from writing several books where that happened. I don’t know when exactly it started — maybe my fourth or fifth book; but after fighting through it all those times (and, seriously, the first several times I made myself miserable), I just got cocky.

Skye: You made yourself miserable, but you didn’t give up. Why? What kept you writing when you didn’t have the experience to know it was just part of the process?

Steve: If I didn’t keep going, I wouldn’t know how the story came out.

Skye: You have to keep writing because you’re curious?

Steve: I’ve heard it said that there are “writers” and “storytellers.” I think those distinctions are real, but also not hard-and-fast — they interpenetrate and mess with each other. You, I think, are a wordsmith who takes joy in story; I am a storyteller who takes joy in how words fit together and bounce off each other. So, yes: I have to keep writing, because I want to tell a story, and the reason for that is, at heart, because I need to know how the story ends.

Skye: How’s this for how our interview ends?

Steve: I think it’s okay, and if it it’s not, we’ll fix it in edits.

(This is a rerun of a post that originally ran on September 23, 2013.)

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The Incrementalists eBook is now on sale for $2.99

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The Incrementalists by Steven Brust & Skyler White

Our  Fantasy Firsts program continues today with an ebook sale! The Skill of Our Hands, by Steven Brust and Skyler White, will become available January 24th. This month we are making it easier to get started with this series by offering The Incrementalists for just $2.99.*

About The IncrementalistsThe Incrementalists—a secret society of two hundred people with an unbroken lineage reaching back forty thousand years. They cheat death, share lives and memories, and communicate with one another across nations, races, and time. They have an epic history, an almost magical memory, and a very modest mission: to make the world better, just a little bit at a time. Their ongoing argument about how to do this is older than most of their individual memories.

Phil, whose personality has stayed stable through more incarnations than anyone else’s, has loved Celeste—and argued with her—for most of the last four hundred years. But now Celeste, recently dead, embittered, and very unstable, has changed the rules—not incrementally, and not for the better. Now the heart of the group must gather in Las Vegas to save the Incrementalists, and maybe the world.

Buy The Incrementalists here:

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Sale ends December 30th


The Incrementalists: Chapters 1-3

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The Incrementalists by Steven Brust and Skyler WhiteWelcome back to Fantasy Firsts. Our program continues today with an extended excerpt from The Incrementalists, a tale of secret societies and immortality from Steven Brust and Skyler White. The next book in this series, The Skill of Our Hands, will become available January 24th. Please enjoy this excerpt.

The Incrementalists—a secret society of two hundred people with an unbroken lineage reaching back forty thousand years. They cheat death, share lives and memories, and communicate with one another across nations, races, and time. They have an epic history, an almost magical memory, and a very modest mission: to make the world better, just a little bit at a time. Their ongoing argument about how to do this is older than most of their individual memories.

Phil, whose personality has stayed stable through more incarnations than anyone else’s, has loved Celeste—and argued with her—for most of the last four hundred years. But now Celeste, recently dead, embittered, and very unstable, has changed the rules—not incrementally, and not for the better. Now the heart of the group must gather in Las Vegas to save the Incrementalists, and maybe the world.


You Entering Anything?


Subject: Celeste
Tuesday, June 28, 2011 10:03 am GMT – 7

You’ve all been very patient since Celeste died. Thanks. Since no one responded on the forum, I’m asking here before I go ahead: I think I’ve finally settled on a recruit for her stub. If some of you want to look it over, the basic info is the hemp rope coiled on the bottom branch of the oak just west of my back gate.

There. That finished what I had to do; now I could be about earning my living. I put the laptop in its case, left my house, and drove to The Palms. Just like anyone else going to work. Ha.

Greg, the poker room manager, said, “You’re here early, Phil. No two-five, just one-three.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Put me down for when it starts.”

Greg nodded. He always nodded a little slowly, I think so as not to risk dislodging his hairpiece. “We have an open seat in the onethree if you want it,” he added.

“I’ll wait, thanks. How’s the boat?”

“It’s still being a hole to sink money into. But I should have it working again by August. Going to take the kids out and teach them to run it.”

“Why, so they can burn out the engine again?”

“Don’t even joke about it. But if I ever hope to water-ski, I’m going to have to.…”

Five minutes later I disengaged and went to 24/7, the hotel café, to relax until the game started.

While I waited, I drank coffee and checked my email.

Subject: Re: Celeste
Tuesday, June 28, 2011 6:23 pm GMT

Looks good to me, Phil. I have no problem with you going to Arizona to do the interview.

I hit Reply.

Subject: Re: Celeste
Tuesday, June 28, 2011 11:26 am GMT – 7

The World Series of Poker is going, so this is a good time for my sugar spoon and a bad time for me to go to Phoenix. Feel like crossing the pond? Or finding someone else to do the 1st interview? I’ll still titan. Or we can put it off a week; there’s no hurry, I suppose.

I hit Send and closed my laptop as I felt someone looming over me.

“Hey, Phil.”

“Hey, Captain.”

Richard Sanderson, all 350 pounds of him, slid into the booth. We’d exchanged a lot of money over the years, but I was glad to see him. He said, “Phil is here before noon. Must be WSOP week.”

“Uh-huh. Which now lasts a month and a half. You entering anything?”

“I tried the fifteen hundred buy-in seven stud and got my ass kicked. That’s all for me. You?”

“No. The side-games are so full of guys steaming from the event, why bother?”

“No shit. I played the fifteen-thirty limit at the Ballaj last night, had three guys who were on tilt before they sat down.”

“Good game?”

“Hell of a good game.”

“How much did you lose?”

“Ha-ha. Took about twelve hundred home.”

“Nice work. Next time that happens, call your buddy.”

“If I ever meet one, I will.”

We bantered a little more until they called him for the one-three no limit game. I opened my laptop again, and Jimmy had already replied, saying that he didn’t feel like going to Phoenix (made sense, seeing as he lives in Paris), but he’d be willing to nudge the recruit to Las Vegas for me. I wrote back saying that’d be great, and asking him to get her to 24/7 at The Palms on Thursday afternoon.

Then I took out my copy of No Limits by Wallace and Stemple and reviewed the section on hand reading until they called my name for the two-five. I bought in for $500 and took seat three. I knew two of the other players but not the rest, because I didn’t usually play this early in the day and because there were a lot of people in town for the WSOP.

I settled in to play, which mostly meant looking at my hand and tossing it away.

I have a house not far from The Palms. I have stayed in many houses, apartments, condos, hotels, boarding rooms, sublets. I’ve lived in many places. But nowhere feels like home quite as much as a poker table. I watched the other players, making mental notes on how they played. I picked up a small pot on an unimproved ace-king, and wondered if the finger-tap from the Asian woman in seat one meant she’d missed the flop.

Sometime in the next couple of days, I was going to see whether Celeste’s stub would work with Renee, and if it did, whether we might have a chance to not tear each other apart and maybe even do a bit of good. That was important; but it wasn’t right now. Right now, it was only odds and cards. And right now is always important.

A couple of hours later, I was all in with two kings against acequeen. The flop came ace-high, and I was already reaching in my pocket for another buy-in when I spiked a king on fourth street and doubled up. I’d have taken it as an omen, but I’m not superstitious.



Subject: Meeting with Jorge at RMMD in NYC
Tuesday, June 28, 2011 1:06 pm GMT – 7

Ren, I hate to spring this on you, and I know I said I wouldn’t ask you to travel anymore, but we need you in New York on Friday. The PowerPoint deck looks great, but Jorge has concerns about the audio component of the user interface. I’d like to have you there to field his questions. Get flight details etc from Cindi.

I chose Twix for anger control and Mountain Dew for guts, but nothing in the rows of vending machines between my cubicle and my boss’s office looked like lucky, or even wheedle. I bought Snickers as a bribe, and ate the first Twix bar on the way upstairs.

I poked my head around Liam’s office door, decorated since Memorial Day for the Fourth of July in silver tinsel and tiny plastic flags. He waved me in, tipped so far back in his ergonomic chair that a dentist could have worked comfortably. Liam laughed and said, “I understand,” and “She’s not going to like that,” into his phone headset, and winked at me.

I ate the other Twix bar.

“Okay, let me know. Thanks.” Liam pulled off his headset and waggled his eyebrows in the direction of the Snickers. “Is that for me?”


“Because you love me?”

“That depends,” I said, but it didn’t really, and Liam knew it. I slid the candy bar across his empty desk. “Working in a paperless office is different from not working, you know,” I told him.

He grinned and ate half the Snickers in one bite. “I hate to do this to you, I really do.”

“Then don’t. You don’t need me in New York.”

“I’m guessing you have a date for Friday.”

“I’m guessing you’re worried about the cost estimates.”

“It’s an awful lot to propose spending on a feature they didn’t request.”

“They would have written it into the requirements if they bothered to read their own research. I did. They need this. Jesus. Is the air at the top of the corporate ladder so thin it’s killing off brain cells? Don’t either of you remember what happened last time?”

Liam opened the bottom drawer of his desk and produced a giant peanut butter jar full of darts. I scooted my chair out of firing range and shut the door to reveal the big-eyed baby chick in an Easter bonnet Liam had snagged from Cindi’s previous decorating campaign.

“Who’s the guy?” Liam lofted a dart at the pastel grotesque.

“Someone new. He’s making me dinner.”

“I’ll buy you dinner. After the meeting—Eden Sushi, very posh.”

“I’ve had sushi with Jorge before.” I held up my hands like a scale. “Cold fish in bad company. Homemade gnocchi with a hot guy. Gosh, Liam, how’s a girl to choose?”

Easter Chicken suffered a direct hit to her pert tail feathers.

“Move your date to Saturday.”

“Can’t,” I mumbled. “He’s in a band.”

The dart fell onto the carpet as Liam let out a wheezy whoop. “Is the air in your blues clubs so smoky it’s killing off brain cells?” He leaned back in his chair far enough and laughed long enough for a molar extraction. Which I considered providing. “Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

“One bad guitarist boyfriend isn’t a pattern of poor dating choices, but half a million dollars in post-prototype changes should have turned Jorge into a research fetishist. Have you tried just reminding him?”

“He specifically asked me to bring you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Sorry. But I can’t really say no, can I?”

“What, to your boss? Who would do such a thing?”

Subject: Your Flight Info
Tuesday, June 28, 2011 5:46 pm GMT – 7

Hi Ren! Jorge’s PA just called me, and he’s going to Vegas for some poker festival. So guess what?!? So are you! All the Friday AM flights are full, so I bought your ticket for Thursday. You’re staying at The Palms.

Have fun!

There’s just no vending machine voodoo for this sort of day. I went home for ice cream.



Subject: Renee
Wednesday, June 29, 2011 12:49 am GMT

Her flight arrives Thursday early afternoon. She’s got a gift coupon for 24/7 Café bigger than her per diem, but no telling when she’ll use it.

I cashed out around nine, posting a decent win, and went home to log it, check my email, and seed the Will Benson meddlework. I could imagine Oskar being all sarcastic about it: “Great work, Phil. Six dozen signs that won’t use quotation marks for emphasis. That makes the world tons better.” Fuck him. I hate quotation marks used for emphasis.

When I’d finished seeding, I checked our forum and added some noise to an argument that was in danger of acquiring too much signal. Then I watched some TV because I was too brain-dead to read, and much too brain-dead to graze. The Greek unions were striking, Correia beat the Blue Jays in spite of Encarnación’s two homers. I hadn’t recorded the game because no one cares about interleague play except the owners. When I felt like I was going to fall asleep in front of the TV, I turned it off and went to bed.

Wednesday was a good day: poker treated me well, and after a pro forma hour hunting for switches for Acosta, I just relaxed. The most exciting thing on TV was Jeopardy!, so I reread Kerouac’s On the Road. I wish I’d met him. I wish I’d met Neal Cassady. I almost did, once, in San Francisco, but I got into a fender bender at Scott and Lombard and never made it to the party.

Subject: Renee!
Thursday, June 30, 2011 3:55 am GMT

Phil, I just happened to come across some of Renee’s background.

What are you trying to pull?

Funny. Jimmy “just happened” to come across some of Renee’s background, like I “just happened” to raise with two aces. And what was he doing up at that hour?

Well, I’d meet her sometime tomorrow, and decide then. When dealing with the group, especially Salt (myself included), it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. Tomorrow would be a busy day: I needed to talk to Jeff the cook and Kendra the waitress, and I had to prep the café before Renee got in.

I went to bed and dreamed of high seas.



I couldn’t get the wi-fi in my room to work, but I had a nice apology gift certificate from Liam for the hotel café, so I went downstairs with my netbook and nooked into one of the high-backed booths. I ordered matzo ball soup because I thought it was funny to find it on a casino menu, but I worried about it as soon as the waitress left. Theirs might be good. Maybe even as good as my nana’s, but it didn’t stand a chance against my memory of hers. I flagged the waitress down and changed my order to a veggie burger, which would have offended my grandmother to her beef-loving soul. Then I opened Google Reader.

It was late for lunch and early for dinner, so I had the place mostly to myself when he walked in looking like all the reasons I’ve never wanted to go to Vegas. He wore a ball cap pulled down over predator’s eyes in an innocent face, and I couldn’t tell whether the hunt or the hunted was real. Still, there’s no conversation you want to have with a tall, dark and handsome man who sidles up to your table in the café of a Vegas hotel. I knew better. I put my earbuds in, and I didn’t look up.

“Hi,” he said, like he just thought of it.

I unplugged only my left ear, and slowly, like it hurt me. “Sorry?”

“Hi,” he said again with one of those smiles that means “I play golf!”

“Um, hi.” I touched the molded plastic of the earpiece to my cheek, but he kept a hand on the backrest of the chair beside me. He squatted next to it, graceful on his back foot, bringing us eye-level, and I stowed every detail to bludgeon Liam with.

“I know you’re not looking for company, but when I travel I’m always curious where the locals eat. Just wanted to let you know you’ve found it. There’s no better bowl of soup in town.”

“Good to know,” I said. Liam would actually feel guilty about this.

“But if you want a drinkable cup of coffee, you have to get out of the hotels.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“You’ll be okay then, as long as you’re only here a day or two.”

“Because you drive tea-drinkers out of Vegas with pitchforks?”

“Oh, no. We just leave them to starve.” The serious nod that accompanied his starvation of the caffeine-adverse made me laugh. Maybe all the earnest was a game. I was pretty sure I could see a dimple twitching under the edge of his mustache.

“I will leave you alone if you want,” he said. “I’m just talking to you on a theory.”

“What theory is that?”

“That you have absolutely no trouble fending off sleazy pickup attempts, and you like talking to interesting strangers, and you can tell the difference pretty quickly.”

I hesitated. “Okay,” I said. “Any insider tips beyond coffee?”

“Do you gamble?”


“Then no.”

“And if I did?”

“I could tell you where not to.”

“And why would you do that? I’m guessing you’re not universally generous with your insights.”

“You might be surprised,” he said, and I caught a whiff of sincerity through a crack in the banter. “But I’d offer you all my secrets, if I thought you’d invite me to sit down. My knees are locking up.”

“Here’s your tea.” The waitress put it down just out of my reach and turned to him. “Get you anything, Phil?”

He glanced at me. Then she did. And whatever anonymous pleasure I’d been getting from a stranger’s privacy in public places seemed like less fun. I shrugged. “Have a seat.”

“Coffee would be great, Kendra.” He stood just slowly enough to make me think his knees ached, and slid into the booth. He told me secrets for eating cheaply and well in Vegas, until the waitress came back with a bowl of matzo ball soup. It wasn’t the sandwich I had ordered, but with its two delicate dumplings floating in a broth that smelled like sick days when Mom had to work and took me to her mother’s, I decided to risk it.

“Shall I let you eat in peace?” he asked, with enough Yiddish inflection to make me check his eyes for a joke.

He smiled at me and, maybe feeling daring because my matzo ball gamble had paid out so tasty, I smiled back. “No, stay,” I said, “and tell me what the locals do here besides eat.”



I decided that that part had been harder than it should have been. “I’d love to say something clever, like, laugh at tourists. But the fact is, get away from the Strip and locals do the same things they do anywhere else.”

“And in your case, what does that involve?”


“Just like everywhere else,” she said.

I felt a shrug asking to be let out, but suppressed it. “It sounds more glamorous than user interface design, but when you’re running bad, you miss the steady income.”

There wasn’t even a delay and a double take; she got it instantly. She nailed me in place with her eyes and said, “If you claim that was a lucky guess—”

“Not at all, Ren. Usually, I’d call you Renee until you okayed the nickname, but I know how you hate your dad’s French aspirations.”

She sat back. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Phil, and I’m here to recruit you to a very select and special group. The work is almost never dangerous, and best of all we don’t pay anything.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Yes?” I asked.

“What I’m trying to figure out,” she said slowly, “is why I’m not calling security.”

“I can answer that,” I told her. “Mostly, it’s the soup. It tastes like your grandmother’s. Also, if you listen closely, you can hear Pete Seeger and Ronnie Gilbert singing ‘The Keeper Did A-Hunting Go.’ And if you look behind me—”

“Oxytocin,” she said, staring at me.

I was impressed, and I didn’t mind letting her see it. “Good work. That saves a lot of explanation.”

“You’re triggering memories to make me feel trusting.”

I nodded again. “Just enough to get the explanation in before you have me thrown out. And so you’ll believe the impossible parts at least enough to listen to them.”

“This is crazy.”

“It gets crazier.”

“I can hardly wait. What are the impossible parts?”

“We’ll get there. Let’s start with the merely improbable. Do you like the MP3 format?”

“Huh?” Her brows came together.

“A functional sound format introduced and standardized. Do you think that’s a good thing?”


“You’re welcome.”

She stared, waiting for me to say more.

“It almost didn’t happen that way. That’s the sort of thing you can do with oxytocin and dopamine and a few words in the right ears.”

She was silent for a little longer, probably trying to decide if she only believed me because I was meddling with her head. Then she said, “Why me?”

“Because you almost got fired for telling truth to power in a particularly insulting way, and you did it for the benefit of a bunch of users you’d never met, and you expected it to cost you a job you liked. That’s the kind of thing we notice. On good days.”

Kendra came by and refilled my coffee, which gave Ren time to decide which of the ten million questions she wanted to ask next. I waited. Her fingernails—short and neatly trimmed—tapped against the teacup in front of her, not in time to the music. Her eyes were deep set and her face narrow, with prominent cheekbones that made me think American Indian somewhere in her background. Her brows formed a dark tilde, her nose was small and straight, and her lips were kissably inviting and led to creases at the corners of her mouth that acted as counterpoints to the laugh lines around her eyes. I wondered what a full-on smile would look like.

“Jesus Christ,” she said.

“He wasn’t one of us,” I told her. “I’d remember.”



Somehow, to my list of bad habits, I had recently added the practice of tapping my eyebrow with my index finger like an overgrown Pooh Bear with his absurd think, think, think. I caught myself at it and balled my fingers into a fist. Phil had his long body draped casually in his seat, but it stayed taut somehow anyway. He reminded me of a juggler, with his large hands and concentration. “Are you hitting on me?” I asked.

He laughed and relaxed. “No,” he said, and I trusted him.

“Just checking.” I sliced into a matzo ball with the edge of my spoon. “Because guys who ask to join me in restaurants, and make small talk, and recommend soups, and invite me into secret societies are usually after something.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”

That shut me up. I ate some soup and pretended to be thinking. But mostly I was just drifting on chicken fat and memories. Eating hot soup in a cold café in the desert felt a long way from my grandmother’s house. “My, what big eyes you have,” I muttered.

Phil frowned.

“Little Red Riding Hood,” I explained, but it didn’t help. “I’m feeling like I’ve strayed from the path in the woods.”

“Been led astray?” he asked.

“Maybe just led. How did you know to find me in Vegas?”

“We arranged for you to be here. Sorry about your date with Brian. But if he has any sense, he’ll be waiting for you.”

“Is my boss one of your guys, or Jorge?”

“No. But one of us helped one of Jorge’s daughters a few years back, so it wasn’t hard to arrange.”

“So you have people in Vegas and New York. Where else?”

“Everywhere. Worldwide.”


“Not yet.” His cheesy wink reminded me of the parrot in Treasure Island, the way source material seems clichéd when you don’t encounter it first.

“Why Vegas? Is the organization headquartered here?”

His laugh startled me, and made me smile, which startled me more. “No,” he said. “There are only around two hundred of us. I’m the only one out here.”

“So they brought me to you, specifically.”

“Right.” There was not a whisper left of his smile.

“You couldn’t have come to me?”

“The World Series of Poker makes this a bad time for me to leave Las Vegas.”

“So you wanted me enough to screw up my life in a couple of directions, but not enough to miss any poker?”

“Well, it’s not just ‘any poker.’ It’s the WSOP, but I would have come to Phoenix for you if I’d needed to.”


“I already told you.”

“No, you told me why me. Now I’m asking why you.”

Phil put down his coffee cup. It made no sound when it touched the table. “I can’t tell you that.”

“You arranged for me to be where I am. You planned how you would approach me, what I’d eat—no matter what I ordered—and what music would be playing in the background.”


I listened again. Sam Cooke. Family washing-up after dinner music—energetic, but safe. “And you’ve been manipulating me ever since.”

“That’s right.”

“Manipulating me really, really well.”

He inclined his head in something between a polite nod and a wary bow.

“I want to know how you do that.”

His smile came slowly, but he meant every fraction of it. “That’s what I’m offering,” he said.

“You and this small but influential, international, nonpaying, not-dangerous secret society of yours?”


“Like the mafia, only with all the cannoli and none of the crime.”

“Well, we’re much older.”

“An older, slower mafia.”

He looked a little disconcerted.

“And you fight evil? Control the government? Are our secret alien overlords?”

“Try to make the world a little better.”


“Just a little better.”

“An older, slower, nicer mafia?”

He stood up. “There’s substantially more to us than that. For example, most people can’t get Internet in the café. I’ve gotten about half the shockers out of the way, and next time we talk I won’t be meddling with your head. Sleep on it.” He took a small plastic dragon from his pocket and put it by my plate.

“I used to collect these things!” I said. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Kendra the waitress stopped him on the way out, said something to him, kissed his cheek, and came to clear our table with her face still pink. I put my earphones back in and logged into Gmail using the wi-fi you can’t get in the 24/7 Café to find two messages waiting for me.

Subject: Tomorrow’s Meeting Rescheduled
Thursday, June 30, 2011 5:46 pm GMT – 7

Hi Ren,

Hope you’re enjoying Vegas. Jorge has pushed our meeting back. Something came up for him at home, so you have an extra day of fun in the sun on our nickel. Take yourself to a show or something. My flight is the same time, but on Saturday now instead of tomorrow. Sorry, but I know you can entertain yourself.



Subject: Breakfast?
Thursday, June 30, 2011 5:01 pm GMT – 7

Assuming you’re free.

And somehow, as trapped and arranged and manipulated as it all felt, I knew I was.


You Can Do That?



Usually, the first interview without switches is the tricky one, so after yesterday, I was wary. I got to the café first, on the theory that her walking up to me would be less threatening than the reverse. Ren normally woke up at eight and spent forty- fi ve minutes getting ready, subtract fi fteen minutes for her being out of town, giving us 8:30; I arrived at 8:20. Katy was hostessing, and she had a dramatic fake coronary, while making comments about seeing me before noon.

“I’m meeting someone,” I said. “So two, please.”

She led the way, remarking, “It can’t be business, so it must be personal. A girl?”

“She is certainly female, and this has nothing to do with poker.”

“Well, my my.”

“Tell me how your heart is now broken.”

“Not mine, but I can think of a couple of waitresses who will be disappointed.”

“Katy, why don’t you tell me this stuff when it will do me some good?”

“Looking out for my staff,” she said.

“I think I won’t ask what you mean by that. Here she is. Katy, this is Ren.”

“You know everyone here, don’t you?” she said, sliding into a chair. “Hello, Katy.” Ren was wearing pants and a sleeveless green sweater that would have looked purely professional if they hadn’t been tight.

“Enjoy your breakfast,” said Katy and went back to her post.

“She thinks we’re involved, doesn’t she?”

“She’s a doll, but she has a limited imagination. And you are every bit as observant as I’d been led to believe.”

A waiter named Sam came up, looking like the dancer he probably was. I ordered a Santa Fe Breakfast Wrap and coffee. Ren looked at me. I said, “It’s all you, this time.” She nodded and ordered Frosted Flakes and tea.

The instant Sam walked away, she said, “What qualifies as better?”

“We argue about that a lot.”

“What are your criteria?”

“That’s part of the same argument.”

“Okay, who gives the green lights?”

“For meddlework? Usually—”


“Meddlework. Two d’s. Our term for it. Like what I did to you yesterday. Meddling with someone’s head so you can change his actions. Usually no one has to approve, you just do it. If it’s something big, you’re expected to run it past the group fi rst, and people usually do. When they don’t we scream at them a lot. There’s a group called Salt that sort of oversees the discussions but has no real power.”

Her stare was intense. Her mouth was set in a firm line, and her hands weren’t moving at all.

“What if you’re wrong,” she said. “What if you do something big, and it makes things worse?”

There is a curving boulevard that leads to a half- moon–shaped park. Buddha watches over the street at various points. The park is dominated by a curved colonnade that looks more Greek than Asian. Along the boulevard, in the park, on the shiny, glittering street, bodies of men and women, boys and girls, old people and infants, wait to be buried. They’ve all been murdered, but not here; there is no blood in the street; everything is neat and clean, except for the bullet holes. There are thousands upon thousands of dead, and they are all looking at me.

“That can happen,” I finally said. “It really, really sucks. We try not to do that.”



Trouble moved over his face, lining the edge of his brow and cheekbone like a felt-tip pen. It aged him and put depth under the handsome. It made me want to touch him, but of course he would know the sexy of vulnerable, and I wasn’t falling for that. I had questions.

“How long can you keep me here?”

“Do you want to go?”

“I mean how long can you keep me in Vegas, Liam in Phoenix, Jorge in New York, and RMMD paying for it all?”

“We have time.”

“How do you know? And how can you possibly track all the implications of what you do? You make it so I’m here because this is where you need me, but maybe Brian is my soul mate, and while I’m gone, he meets some other girl and they fall in love.”

“He’s not your soul mate.” Something fi erce in Phil’s calm voice made me wonder whether it was soul mates or Brians he was so certain of.

“I meant as an example,” I said. “Maybe Jorge goes ahead and commits to a design without hearing from us first, and we lose the auditory prompts his own research demonstrates his users need, and a bunch of old people don’t get reminders to take their medicine?”

“Or maybe you join us and I show you how to get even more effective alarms written into the requirements, plus maybe shift Jorge’s priorities a little.”

“You can do that?”

You can do that. You’re designing a monitoring and assistance device for Alzheimer’s patients. Maybe Jorge’s mom would be interested in joining the beta test pool.”

“That’s what you do? You get nonhuman corporate entities to make decisions on a human level?”

One of Phil’s eyebrows contracted in a way that, if both had done it, it would have been a grimace. Somehow it conveyed interest. “That’s one thing we can do. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes? What determines whether you can do it?”

“Lots of things. How drastic the change is, how well we know the Focus— the person we’re trying to meddle with, how good we are at meddling. No one is going to turn Rupert Murdoch into a liberal, but a few nudges might convince some British investigators to follow up on what he’s doing, if they’re inclined in that direction anyway.”

“That was you?”

“Someday I’ll tell you what we didn’t do. It would have been big. And ugly.”

“So if I want in, what do I do? Confi rmation class? Dunk in the river? Prick my finger?”

“You come home with me.”


“You come home with me and find out.”



Something closed up behind her face. It was as if she suspected the process would be unpleasant, and I didn’t want to tell her about it. Or maybe I just imagined that because it was and I didn’t. On the other hand, maybe she just thought I was hitting on her, and really, I wouldn’t blame me if I did. In an attempt to undo the damage, I said, “Not right now. You can take as much time as you want to think about it. And I’m not meddling with you.”

“I know you’re not,” she said. Then, “But I don’t know who you are.”

“Me, or the group?”

“You. Who are you?”

“That’s a hard question to answer. For anyone. How would you answer it?” She nodded slowly. The food arrived, and Sam asked something about it, and I answered. We ate for a little while, and I drank coffee. Then she said, “What’s the most important thing you aren’t telling me?”

“Good question, but an easy one,” I said. “Because it’s the next thing we get to. The big one. The one you need to know before decid—”

“Just say it,” she said. “I hate prologues.”

I knew that. “The process involves giving you the memories of one of us— of someone who died. No, don’t ask how that’s done. Later. The point is, you’ll be getting the memories of a woman named Celeste. You’ll be what we call her Second, with all of her memories, in addition to all of your own. Which brings up the question of—”

“Who will I be?”


“What’s the answer?”

“There’s no way to know.”

She put her teacup down and looked at me. “Oh, well, that’s just peachy. It isn’t dangerous, but for all intents and purposes, I could just disappear?”

“Your memories won’t.”

“But I might.”

I nodded.

“And I should even consider this— why?”

“That whole thing about making a difference. Don’t tell me that isn’t important to you; I know better.”

She said slowly and distinctly, “Shit,” pronouncing it very carefully as if to make sure there would be no confusion.

I ate some more wrap and drank some coffee.

“Who was Celeste?”

I felt my face do something, and it was like I’d just let my eyes  widen after flopping quads. Crap. The chances she’d missed it  were zero, so I said, “She was someone who was very important to me.”

“You were lovers?”

“Only briefl y in this lifetime.”

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “This lifetime? How many lifetimes have you had?”

“I do not,” I said, “wish to answer that question at this time.”

“I kind of think you should,” she said.

“You are risking what is left of this lifetime. You may, as you, gain others. You may not. There’s—”

“How old are you?” I shook my head.

“That’s an impossible question. This thing I’m asking you to do, where you get someone’s memories. I’ve done that before. So, do you mean the age of this body? The age of my personality? How long the original—”

“Stop it. How long have you been you?”

I inhaled and let my breath out slowly. And I wondered why I was getting upset. This was predictable; part of the normal process. Why was it getting to me this time? One plus zero is one. One plus one is two. Two plus one is three. Three plus two is five. Five plus three is eight. I got up to 610 and said, “I’ve been around for about two thousand years. What else would you like to know?”

“Two thousand years?”

“Me, as me, yes.”

“Do you have memories from before that?”

“Yes, all the way back to the beginning. But—”

“The beginning of what?”

No way around it. “The human race,” I said.

She stared at me.

I continued as if it were no big deal. “But the ones way back are, well, hazy. I can refresh any of them I want to.”

This was where part of her would be saying, All right, just pretend you believe it, and go from there; worry about reality later. “But you’ve been Phil for two thousand years.”

“Two thousand and six, yes.”

“Same personality?”

“Same basic personality. It alters some with the body you’re put in. My personality in a woman’s body is subtly different, and things like sexual orientation are, in part, wired into the brain, so that changes. But I’ve thought of myself as Phil for, yeah, about two thousand years.”

“You’ve been a woman?”

“Several times.”

“Why did you pick a man this time?”

“We don’t get to pick. The others pick for you. That’s why it’s me talking to you instead of Celeste.”

She sat there for a long time, fi rst looking at me, then through me. Then she said, “Is it worth it?”

I discarded half a dozen glib answers, then realized that without them I didn’t know what to say. “That’s sort of an impossible question,” I said. “For me, it’s worth it, yeah. Even with— even with the times we blew it. Was it worth it for you to tell your boss he made Bill Gates look like Richard Stallman?”

Her face twisted up as she tried not to laugh. “You know about that, huh?”

I grinned at her, and she let herself smile. I was right about wanting to see it.

Then she said, “Meddlework. That’s what you call it?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“You do that to people, and change them, to make things better.”


“I want to watch you do one,” she said.



“Look how stupid this is.” I held the passenger door open while Phil moved bags of clothes and boxes of paper from the front seat of his Prius. “Car manufactures know even married people drive alone more frequently than with a passenger, but we still have cars with five seats and no storage. If this seat simply folded flat easily, think how much better it’d be for you.”

“But not for you,” he said with a flourish indicating the cleared seat.

“But you almost never have anyone else in here, so most of the time, it’d be better.”

Phil turned his oddly twisted eyebrows to me and I felt stupid. He’d rather have a regular passenger. Obviously.

“It’s just bad design,” I said.

He pointed his eyebrows at the windshield and pulled into traffic.

“The car, I mean,” I said. “How long were you and Celeste together?”

“A while.”

I stopped talking. It seemed prudent. We drove in the quiet through the visual noise of Las Vegas. It faded quickly into a suburban west that could have been Phoenix or Houston or here.

“I can show you the file I’m building for a guy named Acosta, but I’m still gathering switches, so there’s not much to watch yet.”


“Information I can use to get past his defenses. Like your matzo ball soup. I’m still collecting them.”

“But you can show me one?”

His mouth smiled, but not his eyebrows. “Switches aren’t something you can see. They’re not actual toggles or whips. They’re metaphorical.”

“So you just remember them?”

“Sorta. We store them in the Garden.”

I just waited.

“The Garden is … um. We have forty thousand years of individual memories times two-hundred-odd minds, plus switches and other information. We have to keep it somewhere. The Garden is what we call that somewhere.”

“Somewhere outside yourself?” I asked. “You can store your memories remotely?”

“Sorta,” he said. “It’s hard to explain. But in effect, yeah. You’ll either understand when you need to, or you won’t need to.”

His house was small, but bigger than a man living alone needs, with a rock yard he didn’t care about and room for two cars. Inside, the emptiness felt Zen more than lonely, and comfortable.

“I know you don’t drink coffee, but I haven’t bought tea for you yet. Can I get you anything else?”

“You weren’t expecting me to come home with you today?”

“No. Most people need to think it over.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“No, you’re experimenting with it.”

“I’d take a beer.”

Not just the one, but both eyebrows spun out. “Now you’re just fucking with me,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, and made myself cozy on his sofa. “Tell me about Acosta.”

“One of our pattern shamans tipped us off to him.” Phil stayed in the kitchen, making coffee, getting me a glass of water, talking while he worked. “He’s sales manager at a midsized manufacturing company here in town but moving up the ranks. He started on the line. Couple of months back, he hired a new sales guy, but he’s not working out. Acosta’s given him every chance. He’s loaned him money, covered for him. They’re friends. But now he has to fire him.” Phil hesitated with his hand on the fridge door, back to me, looking for words. “What Acosta ends up telling himself about this—that he can’t be a boss and be a friend, that his buddy’s been trying to play him, or was never really his friend—will make a difference in how he manages everyone else for as long as he works—and we think that’s likely to be a lot of folks. He’s teaching himself a basic rule here, and I want to help it be a good one.”

“How can you know it’s that pivotal?” I took the water from him and he sat down with his coffee cup beside me on the sofa.

“We’ve learned to spot that in people,” he said. “When lives are at a turning point.”

“By comparing your collective experience of people over so much time?”

“Right,” he said.

“Shared in the Garden?”

“Yeah. Shoulders and backs show you what they’re going through is big; their hands tell you it’s urgent; and the jawline lets you know if it’s temporary and immediate or a true pivot point.”

“Do you see that in me?”

He looked at me. “No.”

“You said you’re responsible for the MP3 format.”

“We helped.”

“What else?”

“Excuse me?”

“What else have you done?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Are you asking for an example, or an exhaustive list? If you want the list, I have to decline; I have plans for next February.”

“An example would be nice. Something like the MP3 thing, where you did something that had a broad effect.”

He was quiet for a few minutes, then he nodded.


“All right,” I said. “Ever heard of John Rawlins?”

She shook her head, her eyes narrowed and focused on me the way a snake focuses on a bird.

“He was Grant’s chief of staff.”

“Grant? General Grant?”

“Right. The one buried in Grant’s Tomb. What do you know about him?”

“Um. Lee surrendered to him?”

“Right. What else?”

“He was a butcher, a bad president, and a drunk.”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. Except none of those are true.”

She started to speak, and I held my hand up. “The drinking thing. I don’t know, maybe. But he probably never got drunk during the war, and certainly never when it mattered.”

“Then how did he get the reputation?”

“Short version: jealousy in the officer corps, and the fact that he did have a drinking problem when he was in the army after the Mexican War.”

“He beat it?”

“With help from John Rawlins, who took it upon himself to make sure Grant stayed sober.”

She nodded. “And?”

I remembered the flag of the 46th Ohio, tattered and shredded. I remembered myself, after Shiloh, retching from the smell of bodies and saying over and over to myself, You didn’t run, you didn’t run. I remembered huddling on the ground after the second assault on Vicksburg, thinking about the last screaming fight with Celeste and half hoping I’d get a wound so brutal it’d force some sympathy out of her. I remembered the long, ugly march to Tennessee, trying to get a song started and failing as the cold and wet and the mountain paths almost did what even Johnston couldn’t.

“Yeah,” I said. “We saw how important Grant was after Donnelson. We didn’t know if he’d start drinking, but we couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t.”

“So you meddled with him?”

“No,” I said. “With Rawlins. You could say Rawlins meddled with Grant, though he wasn’t one of us.”

“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

“I found Rawlins’s switches—oysters, saddle-leather, I don’t remember what else. I meddled with him to make sure he took it upon himself to keep Grant from drinking.”

“And if you hadn’t done that?”

“Who knows. Maybe nothing. Or maybe Grant would have been drunk at Shiloh. One thing I know for sure: if the Union had lost at Shiloh, things would have been even worse.”

“So you made him better.”

“I think so, yes.”

She frowned. “But everyone remembers him worse. Why don’t you set the record straight?”

“How would we do that? We meddle a bit with biographers and historians and archeologists, and point them toward evidence, but other than that, what can we do? Who’d believe us? If someone announced, without evidence, that half the books destroyed in the library at Alexandria were works of erotica, would you believe him?”

“Were they?”

“Not half.”

“So there’s nothing you can do?”

That stopped me. The question was either too big or too small. After some thought, I said, “You know what we call people who aren’t one of us?”

“I didn’t know there was a term for them.”

“Of course there’s a term for them. Every group has a term for outsiders. We call them, ’those who forget.’”

“What’s your point?”

“That we remember.”

She was quiet for a couple of minutes. Her shoulders shifted back a little, and she rolled her head as if her neck was stiff.

“That’s it,” I said.


“In my jaw and shoulders?”

He nodded. “And your hands.” And he was right.

“Can you guys find a nice girl for Brian? Maybe someone a little more rock ‘n’ roll than me?”

“We could, but so could you.”

“Oh, right. I can’t tell anyone, can I? I can’t call my mom and say good-bye?”

“No.” He held my eyes the way you’d take a sick man’s hand. “But you won’t just vanish. Even if your personality doesn’t stay on top of Celeste’s—the other, older personality—it’ll be a meld more than a swallow. And gradual.”

“But I will always be there in the external Garden? Just packed away, stored remotely?”

“Your memories will be.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay I want in. Whatever it is you have to do to make me one of you. I’m ready.”

“Okay,” he said, and put his coffee down.


That’s Backwards Too


Ritual and memory; pain and understanding.

Ritual has a mass, a weight, a gravity. It pulls you into itself, and as you use it, it uses you. It takes power and it gives power. Ritual is the same every time, otherwise it isn’t ritual. It is different every time, otherwise it has no power. No matter how many times we experience the same ritual, it transpires differently than it lives in our memories.

That’s especially true of the ritual I performed on and with Ren, because we never remember any of the details between reaching into the Garden to shape the stub, and using the stub in its new shape. Here, of all places, as part of the ritual, our memory fails.

What is memory? Some say our memories are ourselves, which is oversimplified, but not wrong. But if there were a symbol of memory, what would it be? Would it be wood that came from a living thing as our memories continue to grow and change after the events that created them have passed? Would it be shaped by a human hand as our personalities are shaped by our experiences? Would the shape be pointed, to represent that we are always moving forward? Would it be on fire to represent the memories of passion without which we aren’t human, and leaving behind ash to represent the memories of regret, without which we shouldn’t be?

That’s just rationalization, though. I don’t know why memory is symbolized as a burning wooden spike. But it is, and it always has been, for any useful definition of always.

I finished around nine in the evening, Ren sleeping comfortably on my bed. I pulled a chair up next to her, exhausted by the ritual as always, unable to sleep afterward as always. See previous remark about “always.” I waited, rested, read some Ashbless poems, and wished I could sleep. The Pirates were playing Toronto again, but I couldn’t summon up the energy to check the score.

About three hours later she woke as we always do, a scream starting on her lips continuing the one that almost passed before; then she realized that the only pain was a dull headache, and so the scream never emerged. Then she brought a hand to her forehead, touching it to see if there was a wound. It was a gesture I’d seen thousands of time, and made hundreds.

Eventually, her eyes focused on me: fear, anger, wonderment, confusion. What had I just done to her? How much of it was real? Did it matter if it was real? Why hadn’t I told her what I was going to do?

And then, as I watched her eyes, I could see the first taste of Celeste reaching her. I knew that the strongest, sharpest, clearest of Celeste’s memories would first seep into Ren’s head like floodwater under the door. She’d remember when Celeste went through the same ritual, and perhaps she’d remember when Celeste did the same thing to me. Maybe. I can’t reach Celeste’s memory, except through Celeste. We can’t reach anyone’s memory, except through what they tell us. We trust our memories even though they lie, and we cherish our memories, even though there are some we wish we could scrub like burnt egg off a frying pan.

The memory of pain would be present, clear, sharp, but behind it would be understanding. Pain and understanding are always at war with each other. We are fighters for understanding, but we can only get there through pain. We are keepers of memory, but we can only get there through ritual.

Her eyes focused a little more. I got up, sat down on the edge of the bed, and held a glass of water to her lips. She drank a sip.

“Hello, Ren,” I said. “Welcome back. How’s the head?”


“You asshole,” I said, which tightened the tenderness I’d seen softening the edges of his eyes enough to keep me from crying. “You shoved a burning stake between my eyes, how the hell do you think my head is?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s the only way.”

“Jesus Christ. In how many thousand years of evolution, that’s the best you can manage? Talk about a terrible user interface.”

“Something for you to work on, then.” But the tiny lines beside his eyes had gone from care to patience, and now cracked into smile. “But you should eat something first,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

I had to think about it. My body, arranged politely in the dead center of his bed seemed further away than the Renaissance. “Yeah,” I said. “I think so. Got any lark’s tongue in aspic?”

He grinned. “I’ll go check.” He stood up, and I panicked. Without his weight on the mattress, I felt like I might float off the bed. “I know I’ve got peanut butter and jelly,” he said.

My field of vision opened to include both of us, him standing, me on the bed lying rigid, the Ikea furniture and the clean tile floor. “And frozen pizza,” he said. But I was falling out of a well backwards, away from the confines and claustrophobia, and into something much worse. He put a receipt in the open page of the book and closed it.

“Or we could order in,” he said. “You can get almost anything delivered.” He turned back to me, and both of us were small and distant. “Really. Almost anything. Except, for some reason, pizza. You can’t get pizza late at night in Las Vegas. Is that weird, or what?” I could see his living room too, and the kitchen, the little yard in back with a palm tree. “Are you okay?”

If I blinked I would lose sight of us altogether in the weave of bungalows and sidewalks.

“Ren?” He touched my arm.

“Ren?” His fingers closed over my shoulder and trapped the whole suburban block between his palm and my skin. He was sitting, leaning over me, trying to see into my eyes. I let his come into focus. Brown with flecks of something lighter–yellow, or gold maybe, almost amber, and concern. No, worry.

“Peanut butter and jelly, dear chef?” my voice said. “Do not a gas-flame stove and electrical refrigeration and every modern contraption invented to make the preservation and preparation of food into a trivial act or an outrageous hobby now attend your pleasure, where once the collection and preparation of food occupied you so utterly that you scarcely netted even the calories it cost to fell and section meat and wood? Where even the simplest grains and meanest, hard apples were once daily defended from spoilage and rot, frost-burn and rodents, do not now apples from Oregon, oranges from Florida, and bananas from Mexico all await you at the mini-mart you pass before you reach the grocery store in whose vast and air-cooled domain everything from pork loin to fish eggs now stand packed in glass or wrapped in cellophane to be eaten by their expiration dates or thrown away? Yet with all of this—all this splendor, all this wanton excess, you offer me either pizza, knowing I abhor it, or crushed peanuts and squashed strawberries mashed between two slabs of something that bears no more resemblance to bread than this flat futon does to a feather mattress. Having, only hours hence, seared me, cursed me yet again, and impaled me upon the tip of your flaming stake, you now offer to feed me on children’s food?”

“Oh, hello Celeste,” Phil said. “I have good bread. From a bakery.”

“Fuck off.”

Phil’s mouth twisted into a screamlike shape. With a snarl of warning or rage or despair, his hand spanned the back of my head nearly ear to ear. He kissed me. And when he took his mouth from mine, he held my head still, our temples pressed together. I felt his shoulders shake. “I loved you,” he said, choked.

“You should quit smoking.” My voice was tart.

“I did.”

“Not this lifetime.”

“I never started this lifetime. Celeste—”

“I loved you too,” she said, but I didn’t believe her.

Phil was quiet a long time. I watched the hairless little hollow where his collarbones met and tried to remember what the big deal was about peanut butter.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Ren.” Phil stood up and walked to the bedroom’s little window. He shoved the curtains back and looked into the yard like it’d better not have anything to say about it.

“Maybe we should go with pizza,” I said.

He looked back suddenly and caught me testing the skin of my lips for razor burn.

“I’m sorry about that too,” he said, very quietly.

I shrugged and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Will Celeste keep doing that?” I asked him. “Just talking out of my mouth that way? She’s kind of long-winded.”

Phil’s face ran through a range emotions. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you want her to?”

He held his hands out and I took them. I stood up slowly, but it still ground the headache tighter.

“Pepperoni or Deluxe?” he said.


You’re always sleepy and hungry as a new Second; you’re always sleepy and jumpy as a new titan. Ren managed some pizza and then fell asleep. I opened my laptop, disposed of email, and seeded the ritual, leaving it as a bright blue flower in a vase just inside the front gate. I looked around while I was there; a knee-high statue of Iupiter stood next to a full-sized brick oven, and on top of the oven was a basket holding six loaves of bread; and just past that were three coils of hemp, followed by nine or ten candles. I didn’t bother looking in the other direction; I was going to need to clean the place up or I’d be unable to graze my own Garden.

Not now, though. Now I had to deal with a new Second, and, dammit, I was missing all the WSOP side action. I’d expected to do the interview, then leave Ren to think about it for a week or two.

I leaned against the wall that existed in my mind and rubbed a virtual hand over a symbolic cheek. Why hadn’t she had to think about it? I walked over to the oven and grabbed the second loaf, ripped off a hunk, and started eating it. The loaf remained in the basket because that’s how things work. I swallowed, and the memory became part of me and I examined it.

She’d been one of those precocious children who pronounce words wrong because she’d read them before hearing them, but it had bothered her more than most, and as a teenager she’d taken to reading with an online dictionary open so she could hear the pronunciation of words she didn’t know. Interesting, but so?

I bit into the next loaf of bread and recalled how she’d gotten into user interface, and how angry she got over poor design, and realized that she took bad design as a personal insult directed at everyone who used it. Again, interesting, but so?

I continued, and got nothing; but, as so often happens, the accumulation of little things built up an obvious answer so gradually that it had been sitting in front of me for some time before I realized it: She hadn’t hesitated, because there was something she wanted to do. She had an agenda I hadn’t seen.

And I was her titan—responsible for her and it, whatever it was.


I let the Garden dissolve around me and there I was, shaking and in desperate need of the pizza that was all the way across the room. According to the clock on my laptop, I’d spent more than two hours grazing.

I ate cold pizza, then threw myself onto the couch.

I was going to have a lot to talk to Ren about when she woke up.


I woke up happy, with the heavy-boned tired you get from swimming all afternoon in a summer lake. Easy, and not wanting to hurry back to the real world—whatever that means when half my work and all my correspondence exist only electronically. After pizza, I’d stripped down to my skivvies and crawled into Phil’s bed. Now I dove back out of it and dug through the pile of my clothes for my phone, but a short message from Cindi settled me down. Phil—or someone in the Big Power Tiny Action organization I’d just joined—had jiggered things overnight to keep me in Vegas and Liam in Phoenix through the rest of the weekend at least. A longer note from Liam apologized a lot and promised to make it up to me. I sat back down on Phil’s bed and pondered whether I could fit out his window. Head first or feet? Shoulders stuck in the opening or ass wedged in the wall?

Not like he—they—couldn’t find me, even if I managed to squeeze through. Where would I go? And it wasn’t really Phil I wanted to flee, just everything I’d seen while I slept, and what it all meant.

I stood up and stretched. Celeste had been right about the futon mattress—it was unforgivingly firm. I wanted a shower and clean clothes and decent food and time to think it all over. I settled for Phil’s vintage bathrobe of white-and-blue, striped cotton, soft enough to make me wonder if Celeste had a stash of favorite clothes hidden for me, and if they’d fit, and whether she would have been prettier in them.

I tip-toed past Phil, sprawled on his sofa, looking more poleaxed than asleep, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other fallen off his chest. He was still wearing all his clothes. I could have walked right out the front door and slammed it and gotten away, but I guess I didn’t want to. I rubbed my lips, remembering his rough mouth.

His narrow galley kitchen was separated from the living room by a Formica bar. The fridge, pantry and stove all stood on the opposite wall in a line with the sink. A very squashy work triangle, but useable enough until you opened the fridge.

“What are you doing?” Phil sank onto one of the barstools.

“Good morning!” I said. “Wow. That’s backwards too.”


“The morning. We shouldn’t be seeing each other with morning hair and the sleep stupids before we’ve had sex. We should be all after-glowed and satisfied before we have to look at each other in this condition.”

Phil scrubbed at his face. “Why is the refrigerator door in the hall?”

“It was backwards. I noticed it yesterday. The handle and hinges were on the wrong sides.”

“So you’re switching them? Before breakfast? God, before coffee?”

I surveyed Phil’s kitchen, then his face. They were both a bit of a wreck, honestly. Both probably my fault. “I don’t drink coffee,” I reminded him.

“But I do,” he said and stalked into his bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later he had showered and dressed, and I had reassembled his kitchen and done my best with his coffee pot. Five minutes after that, he suggested we go out for coffee.

“Ask a carpenter to dress you and you’ll wear wooden clothes,” I snapped, then tried to figure out what the hell I meant. Phil waited. I said, “You didn’t ask for any of this, did you?”

He shook his head and looked tired. “It’s okay,” he said. “I did know you do that—order your physical environment when you feel frightened.”

“I do that, or Celeste did?”

His rogue eyebrow twitched upward, but his voice stayed calm. “She did too, actually, but I wasn’t thinking about her.”

Nothing in his face moved. He sat impassively on the barstool, swiveling gently, looking out through the sliding glass doors into the yard.

“Bullshit,” I said.

He swiveled back to scan my face.

“No, not Celeste,” I said. “It’s all me.”

The eyebrow quirked a question mark my direction.

“You’ve been thinking about Celeste since we met,” I said. “She’s been a shadow under everything you’ve said. So either you’re so repressed you don’t know you have feelings at all, or you’re lying to me.”

“I have not lied to you.”

I mirrored his total lack of movement.

“But I haven’t told you everything,” he said.

I stayed quiet; it was working for me.

“Let’s go get some decent food,” he said. “I think we’d both be better for it.” He stood up and walked into his bedroom.

I got as far as the barstool side of the kitchen before I realized the bias-cut green dress and difficult stockings I was planning to put on belonged to a woman seventy years ago. I had darned the silk where it wore thin at the toes and could feel, on the backs of my knees, how they bagged before synthetics. I don’t wear nylons often. It’s too hot, and my legs are dark enough. But they’ve always been nylon. Celeste was mixing into me.

I faced Phil’s icebox. No, his fridge, hinged properly now. But the sharp edge of the counter bit into the palms of my hands, and my fingertips went cold with the effort of not trailing after him. I wanted him here to hold me, lock me down, grip my wavering reality in his big hands and bend it into sense.

Phil hit the light switch on the way out of his bedroom and started reeling the blinds over the glass patio doors. “Saves on the A/C,” he explained.

“I gotta go,” I said. “Make whoever do whatever and get me back to Phoenix. I need to stop and think this through.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“What do you mean ’a little late’?”

“The memories are going to keep coming back, Ren. You can’t stop them. The best you can do is let me show you how to organize the lifetimes of personal information you’ll be getting. And how to graze the shared memory you have access to now. And how to put the two together and start your own meddlework.”

“Until I fade away altogether under Celeste?”

“Until it all settles out.”

There were no lines in the skin above his eyebrows, no sign of worry or concern, just information, but he came to stand where I was milking the Formica.

“You’re not an impulsive person,” he said. “You knew you could take your time to think this over. You wanted to experiment with it—watch me meddle, learn more about us.” A strange tenderness turned his voice liquid. “But you took the spike last night without waiting for any of that.” His words slipped over my shoulders like bath water. “You already had some meddlework in mind, didn’t you?”

I turned to look at him. “Did you know you can drown someone in two inches of water?”

The one wild eyebrow shot up, then dove. Surprised, then angry. “You’ve never drowned anyone.”

“No, I haven’t. But how do you know that? How could you know what I am? Can you even see me through all the Celeste hanging over me?”

“I’m not the only one looking.” There was no morning softness, no sluggishness left to his face. My bathtub iced over.

But I didn’t care. Whatever else he was going to tell me I was or wasn’t, I knew for plain fact I wasn’t needy. I wasn’t helpless or pathetic or wanting protection and a big strong man to save me. I might be in over my head, but I wasn’t wasting air shouting for the lifeguard. And I wasn’t giving up my secrets. “You told me you see patterns,” I said. “That your whole niceness mafia is based on changing people by knowing what triggers them and orchestrating those triggers, by manipulating them to be better, right?”

“To do better; being better sort of comes along naturally.”


“I explained that, Ren. We each draw from lifetimes of wisdom and have access to a collective memory that houses almost every fact about anyone. We know how to make someone trust us, we know how to find a memory that will cause gratification. We manipulate and suggest.”

“Then nothing can surprise you? Ever?”

“You have.”

I leaned against the corridor wall. Phil dropped back onto a barstool, one wary eyebrow watching me.

“Then we’re even,” I said. “We should eat something.”

Phil nodded.

“I want the full Vegas experience, lavish buffet, dancing girls,” I said. “I want you to show it all to me, and I want my boss to pay for it.”

“With all of human history available to you if you close your eyes, you want to see Las Vegas?”

“Yup,” I said. “Didn’t see that coming either, did you?”

His wariness doubled in eyebrow. “Are you just trying to be unpredictable?”

“Would that be out of character for me?” I asked.


“Then no, I’m not,” I said, like it was innocence and not exhaustion that kept me leaning against the wall. “But I’m not going to stay inside with the animatronics this time.”

Phil waited.

“For my seventh birthday, my parents took me to Disney World. Mom was pregnant; I didn’t know it yet, but I guess that was part of why we went: a last hurrah for the three of us, with the next two years going to be all diapers and learning to walk. The first morning, I had my first-ever room service meal and opened presents. I got a pair of plastic sparkle princess shoes from my nana’s sister, tore them out of their plastic bubble-pack, and wore them for breakfast in bed with my Tinkerbelle nightie and the room service tray. Do you know this story?”

He shook his head. “What happened?”

I pushed my back into the wall. “We got dressed for our big day at the park. Mom wanted me to put my Keds on, but I was the birthday princess, and either I convinced her that princesses do not wear sneakers, or she needed to throw up and just gave in. She packed the Keds in my new Belle backpack and sent Dad and me down to the lobby where I took them out and hid them in a potted tree.

“We took the monorail, stood in the entrance line, and half an hour into our day with only ‘Dumbo the Flying Elephant’ and ‘Main Street USA’ checked off my pages-long list, my feet started hurting. ’It’s a Small World’ and ‘Cinderella’s Golden Carousel’ later, I’d chewed a bloody place on the inside of my lip.”

Phil chuckled, warm and easy, and I liked the sound and the way his shoulders sat down away from his ears now without the tension that always rode them. “What did you do?” he asked.

“What could I? Fess up and wait with Mom while Dad went back to the hotel to root through the lobby plants? Accept his offer of a most un-princessly piggyback? Keep walking till my awful, plastic torture shoes left trails of blood through the Magic Kingdom?”



“What then?”

“Develop a sudden and unnatural love for the ‘Hall of Presidents.’ No lines. All sitting.”

“Very clever,” Phil said.

I sat down on the stool next to him, but couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I need help,” I said. “And I’m not willing to miss out on seven-eighths of the fun because I’m too proud to ask for it. But I’m scared and overwhelmed and have a lot to learn and I can’t learn it all right now. After the dreams I had all night, I need a change of scenery. I want to look away from all this and come back with clean eyes. I want to throw myself into an experience that isn’t mine, a movie or not-a-memory, something I can’t possibly be responsible for.”

“Let me show you Las Vegas,” he said. His eyes were the brown of bearskin.

“I’ll get my walking shoes,” I said.


Sinatra sang “Fly Me To The Moon” as the Fountains at the Bellagio went through their paces. I watched her, pleased she was enjoying it, and wondering how the hell I was going to get her to tell me what she had planned. It was wall-to-wall people, as always, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m going to need a primer on the jargon,” she said.

“It’ll come back to you.”

“No, not Incrementalist jargon; poker jargon.”

“What brought that up?”

“You didn’t hear the conversation behind us?”

“I wasn’t paying attention, sorry.”

“I think I can quote it. ’I had the nuts on the flop. He called my push with fuck-all, and hit runner-runner straight.’”

I nodded.

“What does it mean?” she said.

“That he’s a whiner.”

“No, the terms.”

“The nuts is the best possible hand for a given board. A push means betting all of your chips. Fuck-all means—”

“I got that one. And I know what a straight is. What’s runner-runner?”

I did my best to explain, which required explaining the basics of hold ’em, which took most of the cab ride to Treasure Island. We watched the pirate fight, which had been better before it was just another skin show. A short walk brought us to the Venetian, where we wandered around the fake canals and got Italian ice and Godiva chocolate and admired the lighting job and, again, fought our way through the stifling, dense Las Vegas crowds.

After a cab ride to and from the Luxor we were at the Mirage, where I’d parked. We had the buffet, and I explained that the volcano didn’t start until night, and that we needed to wait for the Fremont Street Experience.

“There is,” she said, “a roller coaster.”

“Three of them, in fact, on the Strip.”


“If you consider America a large amusement park, Las Vegas is the Midway.”

“That is an interesting way to consider America.”

“It explains Las Vegas.”

She was done eating her samples of this and that; I finished my shrimp creole and stood up. “Want to gamble?” I said.

“No. What would you do if someone was about to shoot me?”

“What?” I stopped in midstride and stared at her. A middle-aged couple in matching Hawaiian shirts stepped around us. “No one is going to shoot you.”

“I know. But what would you do?”

“Convince the person not to. What are you getting at?”

“Convince the person how? Magic, or threats?”

“It’s not magic.”

“You know what I mean.”

“All right. Magic, I suppose, if I thought it might work. I’m not very intimidating. Why are you asking about this?”

“You study people pretty thoroughly, don’t you? If you’re planning to meddle with them, I mean.”

“Even more thoroughly if we’re trying to recruit them. What of it?”

We fought more crowds, and eventually made our way out into the Las Vegas heat that always hits like a tangible object, no matter how used to it you are. She ignored it, but she was from Phoenix, where it’s even hotter.

I handed the valet my ticket.

“Do you always do valet parking?”

“Habit,” I said. “Three buy-ins for a two-five no-limit game is about fifteen hundred dollars. If you’re walking around with that much cash in your pocket at two in the morning, a dark parking garage isn’t your favorite place to be. Now, you’ve been getting at something for the last hour. Ren, would you please have pity on me and tell me what it is?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“Are you enjoying this?”

“I’m not being coy. This is research. What did you and Celeste fight about?”

“God! What didn’t we fight about? Religion, politics, morality, food—”

“Ever since you’ve been Phil and she’s been Celeste?”

“She’s only been Celeste a few hundred years. But yes.”

“Meddlework. You were on opposite sides of a lot of them?”

“If it had been up to her, Antietam wouldn’t have been fought.”

“She thought it was too big.”

“If it had been up to Oskar, the entire Southern aristocracy would have been dispossessed after the war.”

The car arrived. I held the door open for her; I guess because she’d gotten my mindset into an earlier age. She accepted it without question, maybe for the same reason.

“The big fight with Celeste,” she said, like she was prompting me.

“The big one? This lifetime? The 2000 election. Florida. I still think she was wrong.”

“Then why didn’t you do something?”

“It was already done.”

“I mean, afterward. You could have exposed it.”

“It was pretty well exposed.”

“Not completely. Why didn’t you?”

“That would have been … I don’t know. Oskar wanted to. No one else did.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Christ, Ren. It would have been huge. I don’t know. Because…”

I stopped talking and thought about it, trying to remember. I was in the Bellagio lounge when the election results were coming in. I was drinking Macallan 25. I was angry, disgusted. I picked up my cell phone to check flights to Florida. Celeste called right then, and said—

And said—

“Fuck. She meddled. With me. Long distance, for chrissakes.”

“I just thought you should know,” said Ren.

I turned onto the Strip from Spring Mountain, going through the red light. Of course, there was a cop there.

Fifteen minutes later, citation in hand, I pulled us out into traffic; extra careful the way you always are with those flashing lights right behind you.

“Will the car drive better if you pull the steering wheel off?”

I didn’t answer, but relaxed my grip.

“You’ve been wondering,” said Ren, “what piece of meddlework got me so excited I just went and jumped into this thing.

“Uh, sorry,” I said. “Yeah, but this thing with Celeste caught me off guard.”

“Right,” she said. “The thing I want; I think Celeste started it.”

Copyright © 2013 by Steven Brust and Skyler White

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The Incrementalists by Steven Brust and Skyler WhiteThe Incrementalists—a secret society of two hundred people with an unbroken lineage reaching back forty thousand years. They cheat death, share lives and memories, and communicate with one another across nations, races, and time. They have an epic history, an almost magical memory, and a very modest mission: to make the world better, just a little bit at a time. Their ongoing argument about how to do this is older than most of their individual memories.

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The Incrementalists by Steven Brust and Skyler White

“Secret societies, immortality, murder mysteries and Las Vegas all in one book? Shut up and take my money.” —John Scalzi

The Incrementalists — a secret society of two hundred people with an unbroken lineage reaching back forty thousand years. They cheat death, share lives and memories, and communicate with one another across nations, races, and time. They have an epic history, an almost magical memory, and a very modest mission: to make the world better, just a little bit at a time. Their ongoing argument about how to do this is older than most of their individual memories.

Phil, whose personality has stayed stable through more incarnations than anyone else’s, has loved Celeste — and argued with her — for most of the last four hundred years. But now Celeste, recently dead, embittered, and very unstable, has changed the rules — not incrementally, and not for the better. Now the heart of the group must gather in Las Vegas to save the Incrementalists, and maybe the world.

“Watch Steven Brust. He’s good. He moves fast. He surprises you. Watching him untangle the diverse threads of intrigue, honor, character and mayhem from amid the gears of a world as intricately constructed as a Swiss watch is a rare pleasure.” —Roger Zelazny

The Incrementalists, by Steven Brust and Skyler White, releases today, September 24th!

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