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These are special previews of stories from in our book This Is How You Die, out in July 2013 from Grand Central Publishing. Its the sequel to our bestselling short story collection Machine of Death, which introduced the idea of a machine that can predict how youll die. All of the the stories in both books are explorations into this common theme. All the stories in the full book are paired with illustrations from some of the finest artists around, including Ramn Prez, Aaron Diaz, Braden Lamb, Trudy Cooper, Meredith Gran, Greg Ruth, Lexxy Douglass, Becky Dreistadt, Graham Annable, and Carla Speed McNeil. The book also contains new comic strips by Kris Straub, Ryan Pequin, Anthony Clark, and KC Green. This file is released under a Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercialShareAlike license. This permits these stories to be freely downloaded, shared, and retransmitted in a noncommercial manner, so long as attribution is given. For more information about MoD, visit machineofdeath.net.
Not on your life, Julia said. Leah sipped her latte, looking at her sister with the same mix of feelings she always had: love, protectiveness, and total frustration. Julia had kept her hair long once the twins had been old enough to make their own decisions. Their mother had always dressed them in matching outfits and given them the same short haircut, and while that hadnt bothered Leah, it had driven Julia crazy. Now that they were adults, Julias chestnut hair fell just past her shoulders, unlike Leahs chic Hepburn style. Julia wore soft pastels where Leah favored rich jewel tones. Julia wore no jewelry aside from her wedding band. Leah decorated her ears, throat, wrists, and fingers with simple silver pieces shed had made personally for herself. And still the waitress had exclaimed, You two are twins, right? No, Leah had said. This is my girlfriend. The waitress had flushed and stammered and taken their order. Julia had given Leah a rare smile of conspiracy. Youre terrible. Leah had shrugged and then launched into her reason for calling. So. Heres what happened. Julia had listened, frowning with distaste when Leah had begun the tale and then glaring by the end of the description of what had happened. And thats the problem, Leah said. Ive got two results, and theyre mutually exclusive, so the doctor asked if I was an identical twin, which would mean that one of them is for me, and one is for you. I dont want to know what either of them says, Julia snapped, holding up a hand. Leah sighed. You dont? Dont sigh at me. And no, I dont. Julia put her coffee down with finality. I dont know why anyone would want to know. Itsmorbid. What if it said something like childbirth. Tristan and I are trying for a child you know that. It would change everything. Well. Leah had frowned, thinking that Julia was missing the point entirelyyou couldnt avoid death, she felt. Knowing ahead of time at least meant you could live accordingly. It helps you plan ahead. Some of us like surprises. Leah crossed her arms. The doctor said that if you took the test and
CONFLAGRATION
Eliot tapped sugar out of a spoon onto the glistening surface of half a grapefruit. It took a few moments before the crystals softened their edges and melted to syrup. He knew, when he sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stowed it in the crisper, that Lydia would want the other half. He knew she wanted the other half of the fruit, and he knew how the rest of the morning would unfold. In a few minutes, Lydia will appear at the foot of the stairs in slippers and a white terry-cloth bathrobe cinched below her breasts. Shell see him hacking with a too-big spoon at the wedges of his fruit, squinting against the spray of juice. Shell glance over the Formica counter, which she scrubbed yesterday or the day before, but she wont bring it up. Shell yawn in the doorway and step in the kitchen and say, Did you save me half? Eliot will freeze, his spoon poised, and say, Oh. Did you want that? Im sorry, I put it back in the fridge. Lydia will stare at him, expressionless, for about two beats longer than necessary to make her disappointment clear. As she glides across the kitchen, ankles just visible in the gap between her slippers and the hem of her robe, his mind will drift to mornings a decade ago. In those days, her legs would scissor out of her robe when she walked. In those days, when she bent low to scratch at her shin or adjust a slipper, one of her breasts might sneak out from behind a loose knot at her waist. At some pointprobably after shes coaxed three or four wedges of fruit from the rind with a lazy, juiceless easeshell ask him about their vacation plans. Has he been cleared to take that week off work? Though his request had been approved days ago, hell evade the question. Eventually, theyll dress. He in a rumpled blazer intended to make his patients see him as competent yet cool. She in a crisp, cheap pantsuit
TETRAPOD
My name is Miyako Kamemura. I play kendo. I will die by fall down stairs. Nice to meet you. I sighed. Falling, I said, flouting everything Id learned about the right kinds of corrective feedback in my studies of second-language learning and forcing a smile to mitigate the blatant recast. Falling down stairs. Its nice to meet you too. I shook her hand, letting the I play kendo gonone of us had ever quite figured out for sure what the correct verb to use with kendo was, anyway. I do kendo? I practice kendo? Let their high school English teachers worry about it. My name is Takeshi Kamai, the next kid was saying confidently. I play running. I will die by lung disease. Miyako had sat back down, blushing a bit. By this time, the first year of middle school, theyve mostly memorized their basic jikoshoukai selfintroduction. Name, favorite sport, death, sometimes favorite food or which neighborhood theyre from. I love getting to know the new first years, but right then I was not in the mood for endless jikoshoukai day, repeating my own fifteen-minute introduction to each of the four new first-year classes in turn, listening to each student, an endless flood of ninety names I wont remember a single one of. It drains a lot of energy that I didnt have to spare that day. And each class asks the same questions: How old are you? (Twenty-three.) Do you have a boyfriend? (Not technically.) Whats your blood type? (A-negative.) How will you die (or more commonly, What is you will die by)? (Breast cancer, which always draws a few giggles from the boys.) Whats your favorite bug? (Dragonfly, I finally decided after the fifth time I was asked.) Is your hair really naturally blond? (For the hundredth time, yes.) Today one kid threw me off by asking what my favorite word in Japanese is, and I didnt have an
The Island of Dr. Jethmalani was my first henching job. We called him Dr. Jeth, just because it sounded like Dr. Death, but he wasnt really a supervillain. Well, he wasnt a supervillain until they started sending armed superheroes to kill him, and then suddenly he was the bad guy. He bought the island to build the Lazarus Reactor, his brainchild and obsession. He was already planning it before he got tested: its a type of nuclear reactor where the fission process moves through the core. Thats what generates the power, but what makes it efficient is that each depleted part of the core is replenished by nuclear transmutation before its needed again. He called it Lazarus because the zones spend four stages of the sequence dead before coming back to life. And because it has a z in it, which sounds cool. If it worked, youd need only a small amount of uranium 235 to kickstart the thing, and it could churn out ferocious amounts of power for hundreds of yearswithout ever requiring fuel or expending waste. But if youre a governmental skepticand that would be putting it mildly for Dr. Jethyoure not going to trust any one country with that kind of technology. Certainly not Indiaor the U.S. When he got his test results back, that clinched it. He was going to die of LAZARUS REACTOR FISSION SEQUENCE, the process that kicks the completed device into full operation. Hed been given a piece of paper that told him he was absolutely certain to complete his lifes work successfully. So he started to get ambitious. I typed in my password and headed down into the lab, turning to check that the steel door sealed properly behind me. When I turned back, I ran into Di and internally panicked. What am I wearing? Why dont I know that? Do I have secret agent blood on me? Why dont I just make it a rule to look good at all times? Hey! Too upbeat, idiot. Hey, Mort. She smiled, but you couldnt read much into that. What the hell was I about to say? Dont suppose anyone in the next batch dies PAINLESSLY DURING SLEEP, SAVING EVERYONE A LOT OF HASSLE? I asked, regretting the joke immediately.
Di wasnt Dis real name either; she just worked in Diagnostics. Among many other things, she was the one who tested any hostiles Security captured, to find out how theyd die. At first, they were all GUNSHOT WOUNDs and BLUNT FORCE TRAUMAs. Simple jobs for Ex. But then the U.S. military started sending unkillables, and thats when things got tricky. Its rare, very rare, but every now and then someone with a slip that says TOOLSHED is willing to sign up for wet work. That means theyve got an agent in the field who cannot possibly die in the field, and thats a scary thing to deal with. Ex would tr y his best, but without fully comprehending the implications of directionally agnostic causality, it ended with a lot of burned-down toolsheds and escaped agents. Thats why Dr. Jeth hired me: Id written a paper in the 2060s called Tweaking Inevitability: How to Change Your Fate in a Way the Universe Is Mostly Okay With. My job was to take a result like VICTORIA FALLS, and instead of thinking We have to take him to Zimbabwe and/or Zambia, figure out an easier death we could do right there without proving the machine wrong. Before I ever let Ex strike a blow, I had to be sure that if the subject died the way we were trying to kill him or her, itd make sense for the machine to have said what it said. If you try to contradict a prediction, things go wrong. And they go wrong in painfully unpredictable ways. After an awful few minutes in which I tried not to think of anyone on staff called Victoria, I realized the name didnt have to belong to a human. All we needed was a living thing large enough to kill when dropped from a great height, and it could be anything it made sense to name. There isnt a lot of info on this island online, so I looked up the nearest big one and flicked to fauna. Tapirs. We probably had tapirs. A meter high, two meters long, and anything up to three hundred kilos easily enough biomass to crush a human being. I would catch a tapir, name it Victoria, and have Ex drop it from the south mast onto inmate six. The world would continue to make perfect sense. I dont know what I was expecting, but the result that afternoon
It was a three-minute walk or a two-minute run, and I was jogging, so it took me four minutes. And yes, my arms ached, but it was a good ache now. When I got there, Di was already gone. I held the gun up in both hands and very slowly peered into her office, but the door was open and it was empty. There was only really one way she could have gone, so I ranproperly this time. I found her kneeling over an agent twisted into the most explosively awkward pose, a sheathed carbon-fiber knife between her teeth. I fell in love with her on the spot. Eeeth fee heerf fath. She opened her mouth to drop the knife, unloaded the clip from his pistol, and shoved both into the back pockets of her jeans. Sorry, I had a knife in my mouth. This was about the only piece of information I already had. What the hell happened? I Tased him. But, Mort, weve got a problem. Well, the two geekiest people in the building have taken out more of the intruders than our twenty-man security team so far, so I can believe that. Ha! You got one too? She stood up. Im glad youre okay, by the way. She touched my shoulder, giving me instant cardiac arrhythmia. No, theres another problem: Ex hit their leader, and I tested the blood. Look. She showed me the readout on her phone. Fuck. Fuck! We need to go! I know! Wheres Ex now? There was a stomach-twisting crack of bone and a scream from the stairs down to the lab. I looked at Di. I have a theory about where Ex is now. Shit, Mort, thats him. Ex had the leader on his front, twisting his arm into shapes that shouldnt work. I pointed my gun uselessly at both of them, and Di wisely moved out of my line of fire. Ex, dont! she shouted. You cant stop him! The moment Ex looked up, a fist smacked him in the jaw with astonishing force. The leader got to his feet, his snapped arm hanging
BLUE FEVER
Athba had a death to sing. She stood straight and tall at the front of Lord Keloths small, nervous group of court musicians. The smell of jasmine, orange flower, and oakmoss rose from dim braziers at the corners of the banquet hall, mingling with the scents of roast meat, delicate sauces, and sweets. Courtiers whispered and jibed, no doubt forming and breaking alliances even as the banquets courses were changed. A clockwork servitors gears clicked incessantly as it scuttled with an insectlike gait from table to table. It paused and pointedly brushed a crumb off Athbas skirt before rolling away again. She breathed deeply, willing herself not to tug at her thick black hair or to fuss with the robes hiding her voluminous figure. Style was everything with Lord Keloth, and though he had not disliked a song of hers yet, she could guess at the penalty for failure. He perched heronlike on his throne, draped in scarlet silk, his eyes fixed on hers. Athba, he said, do you have something to sing me? It was a silly question. Of course she did. Her deathsongs were the sole reason she enjoyed Lord Keloths patronage. She nodded, and he gestured to the group. As the lead violinist drew her bow, Athba drew breath. The song began with a wordless, plaintive tune on Nanus violin. Athba sang her first verses soft and menacing, in a tone that hinted that something else lurked underneath. Sunlight glinting red Off of ruby-tinted scale: Teeth, claws and wings Worked in intricate detail
Plague! This time she did not start low and menacing, but urgent. The violinists cantered to keep up. Plague in the towns, Plague in the fields and the city Blue skin bringing death swift and sure. Wails of despair, But wise women whisper That there is a cure Athba widened her eyes and waved her hands, letting the anxiety of a blue fever epidemic fill the roomthough she could not allow it to influence her lungs or throat. The sound must come up free, full, and pleasing. She kept her own anxiety locked up in the back of her mind. Her expression came not from her heart, but from a place she pictured behind and to the right of her, a repository for imaginary emotions. Only when the prophecy of a cure appeared did the tempo slacken slightly. Nanu brought in a sweet, hopeful countermelody. But the cure could be delivered only by Lady Irathis hands, and only with the aid of a particular emerald-green flower. The song became a quest song, leaping along in hope and fear. Lady Irathi endured magical trials, found the flower, and went from house to house, laying a petal on each fevered brow. When the fevers began to flee, Nanus melody leapt in outright joy, though the other violinists played short, tense notes underneath. It was not yet over. There was always a catch. When the plague had all but run its course, Lady Irathi began to notice blue marks on her skin. And the emerald-green flower could be used only to heal others. The violins slowed. The song became a stately, reverent dirge. The whole land praised the dying lady. She raved, choked, withered before their eyes, and they only loved her more. Irathi, said the people in Athbas deathsong, was a saint. That is how it ended: on a soft, high note and a prayerful arpeggio, and in awe.
YOU DIE
Stories of the Inscrutable, Infallible, Stories of the Inscrutable, Inescapable Machine of Infallible, Death Inescapable Machine of Death
RYAN NORTH, RYAN NORTH, MATTHEW BENNARDO, MATTHEW BENNARDO, AND DAVID MALKI ! AND DAVID MALKI !
EDITED BY EDITED BY
IN S TORES EVERYWHERE