Desperate, I tried Michael.

“Effie, you’ve come a long way since I met you,” Michael replied after I asked him for a loan. “I’m sensing a real transformation.”

“I don’t know what to do.” I hated myself for asking for money, for appearing weak.

We were back in our coffee shop. The heat of summer was gone, replaced with the chill of coming winter. Red leaves were falling from the skeletons of trees outside.

“Money,” said Michael, “is not the solution to any of life’s problems.” He held my hands in his. Both of his arms were prosthetic now. “I applaud the enthusiasm that you’ve taken to our holy sacrament, but you need to find your own way through this.”

There was only one way—had

always

only been one way—I realized now.

Michael squeezed my hands. “The only constant in life is change. Life is ever evolving. It’s not about

being

something; it’s about

becoming

something.”

I nodded. “Can I come for dinner with the Church again?”

His eyes seemed to stare through mine, seeing through me into my soul.

“Only you can answer that,” he replied.

• • • •

The ancient subway car rattled toward me, its wheels squealing. An encircled “Q” glowed on the front of the driverless lead car. It was the express train, rolling without stopping on its way past the 29th Street station. I was standing near the end of the platform, next to the far wall. The squealing stopped as the train began to clear the station and accelerate back up to speed.

The lead car was almost at me, and I stepped onto the edge of the platform, staring at the empty driver’s seat of the subway car as it rushed closer.

“Hey, lady!” someone called out.

The train was now just feet away from me. I stepped toward the ledge and the empty space beyond.

“Lady, watch—”

The squealing began again, this time ear-shattering, but it was too late. I leaned in, feeling the train crash into me. There was no pain, just a flash of white before blackness descended.

• • • •

A keening whine woke me. Opening my eyes, I could see snow falling outside my window, but it wasn’t enough to stop emergency services. I hadn’t been at my office in months—on sick leave, or, more accurately, rehabilitation leave—so I brought my work home. Glancing at my side table, the cover sheets of the latest data downloads glowed on my tablet: Structural basis of lentiviral subversion in cellular degradation, genomic sequencing of flesh-eating bacteria, and new trial results of viral gene-therapy.

It was nearly 9 a.m.

I sat up in bed and arched my back. My whole body ached. Swinging my legs off the bed, I stood and wobbled, still not quite used to it. I pulled down the blinds to cocoon myself.

Again the whining. “Buster, baby, please stop, someone will be here in a few minutes.”

Walking into the bathroom, the lights glowed on by themselves. I reached my arms above my head in another stiff-morning-stretch and stopped to inspect myself.

In the mirror I gleamed like a silvery spider, my slender arms glittering in the light reflecting from overhead. I’d chosen to keep my prostheses with exposed metal, wiring junctions and all, to keep the weight down.

My legs were now lithe titanium-alloy slivers that supported the stump of my body between them. The meat of my midsection was criss-crossed with angry red scars where organs had been removed and replaced.

The first steps had been easy.

After some haggling, I’d convinced a doctor to amputate both of my arms, even gaining possession of them after the fact. I hosted my first Church dinner with my bicep as the main course. It was my coming out party. Eating my own flesh—my own true flesh—made my spirit soar, the cracks in my soul closing with each piece of my body that I consumed. As I devoured myself, I filled myself, making myself both more and less at the same time.

When it came to my legs the doctors had balked. They’d refused more amputations, and I couldn’t afford a trip to one of the far-off places medical tourists could go to have this sort of work done.

But…

Just one misplaced step on the subway, and a leg was severed. Slip in the shower at the wrong angle and you could rupture a kidney. I always refused the insurance payments, only asking for the prostheses and organ replacements. I arranged for a round-the-clock medical monitor so that every accident brought near-instantaneous responses by emergency teams.

The pain was excruciating but cleansing.

I admired myself in the mirror, my misshapen torso laced with the cuts and lashes of my salvation. Taking a deep breath, I prepared for perfection, taking one final look into my eyes before closing them tight. Slowing my breathing, my mind filled until it was a cool, calm lake.

“If thine eyes offend thee…” I intoned over the yelps of Buster. Reaching toward my face with my hands, I paused, and then dug my spiny metal fingers into my eyes.

The world exploded in a rapture of pain. Black circles danced in my vision as my eyesight faded. I screamed. Tightening my grip, I pulled harder, feeling the optic nerves resisting my efforts. Finally, with a wet pop, one and then the other snapped elastically. Blood coursed down my face. Dropping to my knees, I stuffed my eyeballs into my mouth and began chewing. Gagging, crying, I tried to swallow, and with a final effort managed to get them down.

“Don’t worry, Buster,” I choked out between sobs, “someone will be here soon, baby!”

Already the paramedics had been alerted by my health monitoring service. They’d arrive in five minutes, and by tomorrow I would be seeing through new eyes.

A chime signalled an incoming call.

“We are so proud of you,” announced a familiar voice.

My heart filled with a bliss that blotted out the pain. I wanted to cry, and maybe I did—it was hard to tell. With the back of one mechanical hand, I wiped away my bloody tears of joy. “Thank you, Father Michael.”

I felt as light as a feather.

“I have spoken to God this day,” Father Michael continued. “Mankind’s depravity has once again permeated every part of his being, every man’s heart so sin-stained that nothing they touch is not evil. A new Flood is coming to cleanse God’s Earth, but not one of water, this deluge will be one of flesh and blood…”

He wasn’t just speaking to me—he was addressing the whole rapidly growing body of the Church, assembled virtually around the world to observe my ceremony. He took control of my robotic prostheses, and I could feel myself standing.

“Freyja, you are accepted into the Church of Sacrificial Atonement. You will be the knife that cuts the rotting flesh from our God’s Earth. In your own blood I baptize you reborn, from now on to be known as Saint Freyja.”

“Freyja,” he repeated, “archangel of love…”

He paused, holding me high for all to see in my glory.

“… and of death.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matthew Mather is the author of the bestselling novel

CyberStorm

and the acclaimed Atopia Chronicles science fiction series.

CyberStorm

was optioned by 20th Century Fox in 2013 for a major film production, and his works have been translated into over a dozen languages worldwide. He started out his career working at the McGill Center for Intelligent Machines, and among other things is an award-winning videogame designer. He spends his time between Montreal, Canada and Charlotte, NC.

Paolo Bacigalupi — SHOOTING THE APOCALYPSE

If it were for anyone else, he would have just laughed in their faces and told them they were on their own.

The thought nagged at Timo as he drove his beat-up FlexFusion down the rutted service road that ran parallel to the concrete-lined canal of the Central Arizona Project. For any other journo who came down to Phoenix looking for a story, he wouldn’t even think of doing them a favor.