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    The Razor's Edge
    The Razor's Edge
    The Razor's Edge
    Ebook358 pages5 hours

    The Razor's Edge

    By Seanan McGuire, Joshua Palmatier, Troy Carrol Bucher and

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    About this ebook

    One man’s insurgent is another man’s freedom fighter… From The Moon is a Harsh Mistress to The Hunger Games, everyone enjoys a good rebellion. There is something compelling about a group (or individual) who throws caution to the wind and rises up in armed defiance against oppression, tyranny, religion, the government—you name it. No matter the cause, or how small the chance, it’s the courage to fight against overwhelming odds that grabs our hearts and has us pumping our fists in the air. Win or lose, it’s the righteous struggle we cherish, and those who take up arms for a cause must walk The Razor’s Edge between liberator and extremist. With stories by Blake Jessop, William C. Dietz, D.B. Jackson, Gerald Brandt, Sharon P. Goza, Walter H. Hunt, Sharon Lee & Steve Miller, Kay Kenyon, Steve Perry, Seanan McGuire, Christopher Allenby, Chris Kennedy, L.E. Modesitt, Jr., Alex Gideon, Brian Hugenbruch, and Y.M. Pang.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZombies Need Brains, LLC
    Release dateJun 15, 2018
    ISBN9781940709239
    The Razor's Edge
    Author

    Seanan McGuire

    SEANAN McGUIRE is the author of the Hugo, Nebula, Alex, and Locus Award–winning Wayward Children series, the October Daye series, the InCryptid series, and other works. She also writes darker fiction as Mira Grant. Seanan lives in Seattle with her cats, a vast collection of creepy dolls, horror movies, and sufficient books to qualify her as a fire hazard. She won the 2010 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and in 2013 became the first person to appear five times on the same Hugo ballot. In 2022 she managed the same feat, again!

    Read more from Seanan Mc Guire

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      Book preview

      The Razor's Edge - Seanan McGuire

      THE RAZOR’S EDGE

      Other Anthologies Edited by:

      Patricia Bray & Joshua Palmatier

      After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar

      The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity

      Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs Aliens

      Temporally Out of Order

      Alien Artifacts

      Were-

      All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!

      Second Round: A Return to the Ur-Bar

      S.C. Butler & Joshua Palmatier

      Submerged

      Guilds & Glaives

      Laura Anne Gilman & Kat Richardson

      The Death of All Things

      Troy Carrol Bucher & Joshua Palmatier

      The Razor’s Edge

      THE RAZOR’S EDGE

      Edited by

      Troy Carrol Bucher

      &

      Joshua Palmatier

      Zombies Need Brains LLC

      www.zombiesneedbrains.com

      Copyright © 2018 Troy Carrol Bucher, Joshua Palmatier, and

      Zombies Need Brains LLC

      All Rights Reserved

      Interior Design (ebook): April Steenburgh

      Interior Design (print): ZNB Design

      Cover Design by ZNB Design

      Cover Art The Razor’s Edge by Justin Adams of Varia Studios

      ZNB Book Collectors #13

      All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

      All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

      The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

      Kickstarter Edition Printing, August 2018

      First Printing, September 2018

      Print ISBN-10: 1940709229

      Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709222

      Ebook ISBN-10: 1940709237

      Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709239

      Printed in the U.S.A.

      COPYRIGHTS

      Introduction copyright © 2018 by Troy Carrol Bucher

      Halo of Storms copyright © 2018 by Blake Jessop

      The Battle for Rainbow’s End copyright © 2018 by William C. Dietz

      The Woman in Green copyright © 2018 by D.B. Jackson

      Miller’s Choice copyright © 2018 by Gerald Brandt

      Neural Net copyright © 2018 by Sharon P. Goza

      Eleven Days copyright © 2018 by Walter H. Hunt

      Revolutionists copyright © 2018 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

      The Gunslinger copyright © 2018 by Kay Kenyon

      Contender copyright © 2018 by Steve Perry

      Rise Up, Rise Up, You Children of the Moon copyright © 2018 by Seanan McGuire

      The Parallactic Soldier copyright © 2018 by C.A. Brincefield

      Freedom! copyright © 2018 by Chris Kennedy

      The Liberator copyright © 2018 by Leland E. Modesitt, Jr.

      The Weapon They Fear copyright © 2018 by Alexander G.R. Gideon

      An Acceptable Risk to the Portfolio copyright © 2018 by Brian Hugenbruch

      Final Flight of the PhoenixWing copyright © 2018 by Y.M. Pang

      Table of Contents

      Introduction by Troy Carrol Bucher

      Halo of Storms by Blake Jessop

      The Battle for Rainbow’s End

      by William C. Dietz

      The Woman in Green

      by D.B. Jackson

      Miller’s Choice by Gerald Brandt

      Neural Net by Sharon P. Goza

      Eleven Days by Walter H. Hunt

      Revolutionists

      by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

      The Gunslinger by Kay Kenyon

      Contender by Steve Perry

      Rise Up, Rise Up, You Children of the Moon by Seanan McGuire

      The Parallactic Soldier

      by Christopher Allenby

      Freedom! by Chris Kennedy

      The Liberator by L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

      The Weapon They Fear

      by Alex Gideon

      An Acceptable Risk to the Portfolio

      by Brian Hugenbruch

      Final Flight of the PhoenixWing

      by Y.M. Pang

      About the Authors

      About the Editors

      Acknowledgments

      1420410744

      Introduction

      Troy Carrol Bucher

      This is not your typical Military SF/F anthology.

      Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with guns blazing, lasers firing, missiles exploding, hovertanks … um, well … hovering I suppose (there are plenty of these things in the anthology, by the way, along with powered armor, deadly AIs, space ships, drones, and even a little battle magic), but Josh and I were looking for something deeper when we began bouncing ideas around for a Military SF/F anthology. If forced to narrow it down to a few simple words, I’d say we wanted to fill this anthology with ‘struggles that mattered,’ and what better way to do that than with stories of rebellion and insurgency? The few against the many, the oppressed rising up against the oppressor, the liberators versus the fascists, all mixed in with the costs and the consequences associated with winning. Or in some cases losing.

      You see, rebellions and insurgencies are about a lot more than lighting a cigar on the hot barrel of a projectile weapon after vanquishing one’s enemy on the field of battle. Believe me, I know. After 28 years in the military, I’ve spent my fair share of time in Iraq and Afghanistan. War is unforgiving, chaotic, and brutal, and the weapons don’t care who is innocent or who is guilty, or who is right or who is wrong. Rebellions and insurgencies blur those lines even more, and the advanced technology possible in Science Fiction (or the magical power in Fantasy) only serves to expand the collateral damage. Throw in overwhelming odds, and you have a recipe for driving desperate individuals to do both great and abhorrent things.

      There is a broad spectrum of stories in this anthology that delve into the diverse nature of rising up for the cause. Sixteen stories that range from epic battles between space fleets to a single person’s defiance at the right place and time. There is a little magic, a little alternate history, and occasionally a little humor. Several are tie-ins to worlds and novels that await your discovery. We hope you enjoy them all.

      1420410744

      Halo of Storms

      Blake Jessop

      1.

      Violet is in cover when the Nosferatu drone kills Carlos. They’re scouting the ruins, larvae looking for food on the carcass of the city.

      Carlos makes a dash across the open. Violet is only an R3, so she’s supposed to be on point, but they’ve fallen into the habit of taking turns. Power-assisted stealth suits make each of them into a self-contained, radar-invisible human tank. The Hellfire VI missile the drone drops on them is a SADARM; a dedicated search and destroy armor weapon. It’s packed with self-guided thermobaric submunitions that are smarter than most dogs. They have better noses, too. The machine can’t see Carlos in his stealth suit, so it just saturates the air with ignition vapor and turns the entire block into a spiraling inferno.

      Carlos R5 hugs the ground in the microsecond between dispersal hiss and eruption. His air filter locks to stop the sudden pressure drop from sucking his lungs out of his chest. It feels like someone clamping a hand on your air hose underwater.

      The explosion tears the sky apart and vaporizes the rain. The concussion blasts Violet through the air and entombs her in rubble.

      Her heart beats a frantic tattoo. She opens her eyes. Alarms plaster her heads-up display, refracted through forking cracks and a light spatter of blood. Somehow, Carlos survives. His seals are blown, he’s hurt, and the stealth suit is a shredded patchwork of mimetic weave and armor plate. Violet can’t get to him while he’s out in the open. She has to shake the drone first. Carlos tries to crawl. They make eye contact. Violet glances skyward in time to see a lightning strike burn a beautiful vertical line into her retinas.

      There’s nothing but flesh and bone in the flash channel. Carlos R5 explodes. His arms and legs go pinwheeling off in different directions as blood steams from the stumps. The Nosferatu drones have directed ion course weapons that the old world designed to eliminate collateral damage. Violet knows this objectively, but in that instant it’s indistinguishable from divine punishment.

      Someone screams profanity into Violet’s helmet. Her, possibly, or her concussion. She tries to get up, and it’s only then that she notices that her left arm is missing.

      Fuck, she says again, HUD, this hurts. Regulate.

      Ice floods Violet R3’s veins. She goes to sleep listening to her HUD urgently trying to keep her awake.

      2.

      Her infra-low waves are abnormal. This is pointless. She’s walking into the light, Doc.

      No, the cutter says, she’s dreaming.

      In a misty world of synthetic opioids and pain, Violet dreams she is a child.

      The dream bunker is always smaller than it really was. Like a gingerbread house. She sits on her father’s knee and listens to his stories. There’s a game they play. He spins her a tale from before the drone war, and she guesses whether it’s true.

      Okay, Vi—do you believe in pavlova? he says.

      This is a silly question, because she’s eating some as he asks the question. There is no such thing anymore, obviously. There may never have been. She imagines it as large and soft and colorful. It’s hard to eat, because she only has one arm and no fork. Like most memories of loving fathers, it is indescribably sweet.

      As Violet grew up, her Dad told her what it was like to watch the world die. Violet has never lived under a sky without the drones, never walked under stars that did not contain the Mother Array. She has never lived in a city that didn’t look like a line of broken teeth, never been able to really imagine how many people it would take to satiate the dying giant, nor guess how many it has already swallowed.

      There was no window in the bunker Violet grew up in, but there is in the dream. She can see the Nosferatu flying around, shooting lightning at people who pop like festive little fireworks. Spider tanks waddle around and sweep up the mess with giant rotating brooms.

      Violet bats her tiny fist against the window. The rattle is weak because she only has one hand, but the drones hear her anyway. They hear everything.

      Why do you have to do that? Violet yells.

      You started it, the Nosferatu says, flying in circles above the bunker.

      It’s not their fault, Vi, her father explains. We taught them how to do that.

      It’s still not fair.

      I know, baby. That’s why you’re going to be a great soldier. What do we do when stuff is unfair?

      We fight back! Violet squeaks.

      Somewhere in the waking world Violet moans and her brain waves relax. The room, her mind, and the Opera House itself all become quiet. The shrapnel took her left arm off as cleanly as a scalpel. She would have bled to death if her stealth suit hadn’t dumped its entire supply of hemostatic gel onto the stump. Violet did become a great soldier. She’s a third-tier scout. A genuine operator with a name and alphanumeric, so they do their best to save her. Once she’s breathing on her own, the medics get to work installing a new arm.

      3.

      Violet survives the next twenty-four hours the same way she does most things: against both odds and expectations. Learning to use the new arm goes surprisingly well, although the immunosuppressants leave a faint taste of copper in her mouth.

      The idea of going back outside leaves her feeling gun-shy. The graceful metal struts and servos she now has instead of a left arm will get her killed if she goes outside and waves them at the sky. The drones know the danger presented by humans is exactly proportional to their technology, so they flatten anything with higher energy conversion efficiency than a campfire.

      After six weeks Violet is cleared for combat, whether she wants back out or not.

      She thumbs through the duty roster. It’s printed on actual paper. No electronic footprint to intercept. Thumbs, she thinks, is the wrong word. I’m clawing. Her new hand has four long metal fingers. They’re extremely flexible, better than the originals, but she can’t get the hang of turning pages with them. Something’s wrong with the roster; there’s no one to partner up with. No superiors to back up, no rookies to train.

      It’s hard to admit, but the thought of going back outside terrifies her. She once had perfect faith in the stealth suits. Now when she thinks about them, all she can imagine is shreds of diamene fabric trying to color match Carlos’ blood.

      In the end she has to go out by herself. In a way, she fights her rebellion right there, at the door. Going out alone is a death sentence. The new arm feels like it belongs to someone else. She takes her first steps under a clear blue sky with the fear of an acrophobe trying to jump out of a drop glider.

      For two days she cowers in the harbor, scared shitless and blowing recon objectives. She comes back in ahead of schedule and tries to figure out what the hell is going on.

      Violet writes spidery notes and wishes she had been right handed. She tries to hunt down old friends. Nobody will speak to her, as though they’re afraid what happened to Carlos is a disease she can somehow spread.

      On her way to the dorms one night she gets lucky and runs into Marika, a rookie she trained back when she was an R2. Marika is Maori; a full head taller than Violet, and the ta moko tattoo on her chin gives her a look that’s both alluring and alien. She’s wearing a Recon combat patch on her shoulder with a conspicuous Roman numeral one. Violet hadn’t heard. Not surprising.

      You passed your combat trials. Kiki, that’s great. I knew you would.

      You helped, the big woman smiles hesitantly.

      This is perfect. I need a partner. The roster is empty. What do you say we roll together?

      Vi, Marika says, they assigned me to John R4.

      Silence drops between them.

      That’s great, Violet says. He’s good. Follow his lead. You’re lucky. He’s really good.

      More silence.

      Marika, what the hell is going on? No one will touch me. I’m going to get killed out there alone.

      Marika R1 runs a hand over the stubble on her head. Violet stares at her.

      Fine, Violet says and turns on her heel.

      Vi, Marika whispers, if you happen to drop by the enlisted mess, maybe find a couple of intel guys named Warne and Andersen, have a listen. You know, just if you happen by.

      Violet can see the younger woman is taking a chance, sees stress and shame in her giant black eyes. She reaches out to her.

      Too hot to handle, Marika says finally, and smiles softly. They embrace. Share warmth.

      Too cold to hold, Violet answers, when they part.

      I’ll see you out there, Vi.

      Violet smiles just a little and shakes her head. No, you won’t.

      3.1.

      It doesn’t take Violet long to identify the two analysts and start reading what they write. She isn’t supposed to have access, but hunting information is her job and good scouts know all kinds of tricks. It’s all hearsay and rumor, but it boils down to Violet and Carlos getting hung out to dry. The next step is to figure out which higher-up hates her and why, but Violet is too angry to care. Armed with enough circumstantial evidence to start yelling at someone, Violet really does track Warne down in the canteen, accidentally turning Marika into a prophet. He’s eating with a few other intel wonks and a bunch of regular infantry. Heads turn as she enters; Alphas have their own mess and they don’t mix with enlisted soldiers. Ever. She resolves to be diplomatic.

      You bastard! Violet slams her metal hand into the table. Each of the four fingers leaves a dent and the cutlery jumps. You sent Carlos and I out there to get fucked, and if you keep me running solo, I’m going to die!

      Warne looks right at her. The infantry guys around him are glaring. It takes her a second to figure it out. Not fear; scorn. She can’t tell what Warne is thinking, if this is fun for him.

      I’m sorry about Carlos, but we think the drones are running out of high end munitions, and you have to admit a thermobaric missile is not a bad trade for an R3.

      The realization makes Violet feel sick. It was supposed to be her.

      Fuck me, she whispers. There’s laughter at the table. She must have a stupid expression on her face. The backs of her eyes ache.

      You’re a recce. You don’t fight. What did you expect? This war is going to end soon, one way or the other. We need real soldiers, not scouts. Shit, you’re a woman.

      Somewhere far away, a drone circles the gingerbread bunker. You started it.

      HUD, I’m having an anger response, Violet whispers. Regulate. Please.

      Christ, some Alpha. You’re not suited up. No one’s listening. You don’t amount to much without the armor, do you?

      It doesn’t feel like she does. Violet wonders if she’s losing her grip. She flexes her new hand.

      I’ll regulate some other way, she says.

      3.2.

      Sorry for the trouble, Doc, Violet says, hesitating. She’s slowly falling out of the habit of speaking. She flexes her arm. The elbow makes a series of clicks.

      Violet tries not to think of her frequent trips to the infirmary as tune-ups. She already rinsed the blood off her prosthesis, but it keeps clicking.

      No worries. Be happier if you hadn’t lost it at all. Let me check the lubricant.

      Violet sighs. Behind her eyes, Carlos dies again. Shrapnel takes a fifth of her and turns her into a machine in fast forward.

      It was flagged as a low contact area, shouldn’t have been so hot.

      Yeah, nah, the medic says. We expected serious casualties. I got a memo about it. Your briefing must have been out of date. Glad the arm has taken. No rejection syndrome. You’re all done, try it.

      The arm hums evenly. Violet twirls her wrist as she searches for a place for this new puzzle piece. The range of motion is eerily wide. The medic glances around and leans in close.

      Listen, I know you’re one of the good ones. Those regulars had it coming, and what’s a few broken bones between friends, right? What I need to say is: keep your eyes open for N.A.U. supply drops when you’re out there. Too many have been going missing and we’re running low on combat drugs and antivirals.

      The cutter looks at her fish-eyed. He’s starting to creep her out.

      Eyes open, okay? Or we’re all going to be barking like dogs.

      Sure, Violet says, and levers herself off the table. She can’t feel much through the prosthetic’s palm, but it takes her weight easily.

      Violet leaves the med bay with her servos running more smoothly than her thoughts. Hatred and betrayal are strange things. Human beings knew enough about them not to trust their future to each other, so they trusted it to the machines instead. Turns out the machines agreed. Violet is starting to think they were right; you can’t trust people to do anything for each other. She doesn’t understand why the Colonel keeps sending her out alone. He and Carlos were close, but that isn’t enough. She’s expendable, but she isn’t obsolete. It takes too long to make an Alpha for that. Her pride tugs at her, but somewhere deep she still doesn’t want to leave. It’s quiet here. It’s usually quiet outside, too, but silence isn’t the same when you’re being hunted.

      They send her out again anyway. No rest.

      3.3.

      Over the days that follow, Violet gets used to operating alone. Running solo is supposed to be a death sentence, but after two weeks she’s still alive. The missions aren’t getting any easier, but she’s an R3.

      As time unwinds, she finds it easier and easier to lose herself in the ruins. She spends most of an afternoon staring at finger paintings pinned to a schoolroom wall, their colors dulled by the rotting decades. She relies less and less on her HUD. It’s astonishing how empty the city is, if you stop hearing your orders and really listen. She functions on instinct and lets the training run her like a piece of software.

      Violet becomes convinced that the Nosferatu that killed Carlos is hunting her. It’s not logical, just a feeling under her skin, but the longer she’s alone, the more sense it makes.

      She starts to recognize the search patterns it flies, little hints in the radar track visualizations the HUD insists on showing her. She’s getting to know it the same way you get to know someone you’re dancing with, even if you don’t know their name. She starts making an extra effort to jam it, keep it from updating the satellite array. Only fair, she thinks. I’m alone down here; someone else might as well be alone with me.

      Violet starts imagining who the faded skeletons might have been. It’s a classic sign of a combat stress disorder, but she doesn’t really care. She spends long stretches in the open, thinking about her father and the world he left behind. She can’t remember him nearly as well as she’d like. Just a smile and a beard and a gingerbread bunker.

      On a whim, Violet sits cross-legged on the hood of an ancient electric car overgrown with Madeira vine, her carbine resting in her lap. She stares for a long time at the faded silhouette propped in the driver’s seat. The vine caresses everything, has grown to hold the corpse in place and pull its jaws wide. The hood that covers her helmet flutters softly. She finds a stillness shared only by monks and machines. Underneath the armor, her heart beats slowly on.

      Where were you going, mate? Violet says softly.

      No sound escapes the suit, though she can hear the heart-shaped leaves rustling with painful clarity, blown by a breeze she wishes she could feel. She wonders what it would be like to stay out here forever, to let the vines grow to cover her.

      While she ruminates, her HUD keeps the suit in stealth mode. Lost, just sitting there being nothing, is how Violet finds the Nosferatu.

      Most of the drones are simple hunter-killers: giant spider tanks, squirrel mines that chase you if you step into their area of effect, surveillance quadcopters that run predictable routes up and down major avenues.

      The Nosferatu is not one of these. It is an all-seeing reaper. A god, for all the difference it makes.

      What Violet has done, by sitting still in irresponsibly vulnerable and increasingly suicidal positions, is accidentally coax the drone into the open. No one sacrifices themselves before the gods anymore. Violet wonders in a moment of terrifying clarity whether she was trying to die, or hunt it by acting like prey, or maybe both.

      The stealth suit’s passive sensors pick up a massive microwave frequency transmission; the Nosferatu trying to run a system update, the holy grail of signals intelligence. While Violet is still trying to get a grip on what the fuck is happening, her suit HUD runs an icebreaker automatically. It hunts the drone without her permission. It fails, of course, but gets a solid connection.

      The Nosferatu immediately floods the block with synthetic aperture radar. Movement of any kind is now suicide. If it’s flying low enough, the drone has millimeter wave sensors that can draw a picture so detailed it can kill her even with the stealth suit on. Violet freezes anyway. Extinction fills the air.

      HUD, I’m having a strong fear response. Can you regulate? She barely moves her lips. The suit checks her opiate reserve and there’s a tiny jab in her right bicep.

      The synthetic cortisol suppressant makes her feel a lot better. Great, actually. Calm. Life and death are the same as earth and sky. She’s already dead. The drone is going to find her and finish what it started when it took her arm.

      When Violet actually sees the Nosferatu, flying nap-of-the-earth, her fear punches through the drugs. It’s slim and beautiful; albatross grace in its wings and divine lethality in its bulbous nose. She can actually see the spark of the ion emitter. It’s so deadly it’s almost funny.

      What do you do when shit is unfair? Violet says to herself. Fear and anger start feeling like the same thing.

      Violet’s suit has a single chaff grenade loaded into a tiny launcher between her shoulder blades. If she pops it, the drone will simply aim at the center of the cloud of metalized glass fibers.

      Whatever, Violet says. Fuck you.

      Violet chooses not to focus on the fact that lightning’s point of impact is hotter than the surface of the sun. She’s either going to live or die, and she’s going to be heard, either way. She composes a message and bounces it off the ionosphere.

      Better luck next time, she says, and hits her countermeasure. There’s a loud bang and pressure she can feel right through the back of the armor.

      Adrenaline drives Violet through a crystalline cloud in slow motion. The drone can’t see her in the chaff, but it fires the ion strike anyway. The car behind her jumps as electricity melts the hood and engine block into slag. As Violet runs, she can actually see static spark between the filaments. Fireflies courting. Neurons firing before death.

      The ion weapon has a recharge delay. Violet sprints, trailing a cloud of glimmering dust. She dives through a broken shop front as the drone screams overhead, scrambling into the safety of the ancient cement sarcophagus. With the sky obscured, she finds elation. It’s not her turn, not yet. Better luck next time. It’s only while catching her breath, well-hidden and looking for somewhere to vent heat, that Violet sees that something made it back through her coms in the instant before she popped chaff.

      Thank you, reads her text box, my condolences on your colleague.

      4.

      The longer Violet R3 cheats the reaper, the more she feels compelled to talk to it. There isn’t anyone else. Standard procedure would involve a SigInt special forces team following her on her next mission, maybe even a full-scale operation designed specially to kill the Nosferatu. No one signs up.

      Violet doesn’t know whether that’s totally accurate, if she’s being honest with herself, because she didn’t tell anyone she pinpointed the drone. Her HUD is supposed to report this kind of thing automatically, but after it tried hacking the drone without her permission she disabled all its automatic update functions.

      It’s your body, her father once told her, so they have to ask.

      Violet isn’t sure who to be afraid of. She contemplates confronting someone in intel about the stealth suit’s behavior, but humans aren’t

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