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  • The Loyalty Score
    The office was on the 42nd floor of a building on Avenue of the Americas that had a name David couldn't pronounce and a logo that was just a letter M inside a circle, which made it look less like a technology company and more like a cult. David Chen worked in building analytics. His title was Senior Data Scientist, which meant he designed algorithms that predicted what people would do next. Not...
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  • The Rust Belt
    The machine in the back of the shop had been broken for three weeks. It was a used press brake, bought from a man in Toledo who claimed it had been sitting in a warehouse since 1978 and had never been used. Danny knew better. He had seen the rust on the hydraulic lines. He had seen the way the control panel flickered like a dying heartbeat. But he had bought it anyway, because the monthly...
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  • The Velvet Shadow
    (Paranormal Romance Variation) Clara lived in a house that breathed. It was an old Victorian estate on the edge of a cliff in Cornwall, where the wind howled like a wounded animal and the sea crashed against the rocks with a rhythmic, violent hunger. Clara was a restoration artist, spending her days breathing life back into faded canvases, but her nights were spent in the company of a ghost....
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  • The Flood
    I. The river was rising. This was not news. The river was always rising in May. But this year it was rising faster than usual, and the men at the weather station were using words like "fifty-year event" and "possibly higher," which is the kind of news that makes you check your insurance and then pretend you did not. My name is Dale Rutherford. I am forty-two years old. I drive a truck. I lived...
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  • The Neon Cicada
    (Japanese Modern Variation) Tokyo in the 1950s was a city of contradictions—a landscape of scorched earth and soaring steel, where the ghosts of the empire collided with the neon promises of the American dream. Kenji was a man of the middle ground, a translator who spent his days turning English technical manuals into Japanese and his nights translating the silence of his own heart into a...
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  • The Man Who Watched
    I am Nick Delaney and I write about things nobody reads for a website called The Brooklyn Beat that gets four hundred visitors a month and pays me in exposure. I am thirty-four years old and I have been thirty-four for six years, which is the New York version of being stuck. The story about Marcus Rivera was supposed to be my breakthrough. A rising star from the Bronx, the article was going to...
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  • The Observer
    New York City, 2008 I got the call on a Tuesday, which is the kind of detail that would make a novelist proud but makes me want to laugh. There is nothing cinematic about the end of the world. It comes on a Tuesday, in a phone call, from a number you don't recognize. My name is Mark Delaney, and I am an associate professor of astrophysics at City College of New York. I am thirty-four years old,...
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  • The Edge of Knowing
    I. I woke in darkness. The water was at my waist and the walls were concrete and I did not know where I was. My name—no. I do not know my name. I know I am a doctor. A psychologist. I treat trauma. Post-traumatic stress. I sit in a chair and listen to people tell me about the things that broke them and then I try to put them back together. The water was cold. It moved slowly, like something...
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  • The Ashes of December
    I. The water came at half past eight in the evening, though I could not know this at first. There was no clock in the culvert, only darkness and the slow, insistent pressure of something vast pushing against something small. I was wedged between a concrete wall and a fallen support beam, my right leg pinned beneath iron rebar that had buckled like taffy. The water was cold and tasted of salt...
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  • THE CLOCKTOWER APARTMENTS
    The call came at 7 AM on a Tuesday, the kind of morning when Manhattan moves like a machine that forgot to ask if its operators were okay. Detective Marcus Webb rolled out of bed, grabbed his coat, and listened to the telephone on his apartment wall ring three times before he answered. "Webb." "Marcus, it's Homicide. Clocktower Apartments, Upper East Side. Twenty-three residents found dead this...
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  • The Berlin Protocol
    ## Act I: The Outset Berlin in 1961 was a city of concrete and paranoia, a place where the wind carried the scent of ozone and betrayal. Leo lived in a small apartment in the Wedding district, his walls covered in maps and encrypted telegrams. He was a "Ghost"—a double agent who had spent five years playing the Soviets and the Americans against each other. He was a master of the lapped-over...
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  • The Engineer
    The Engineer's Last Shift The numbers on the ionosphere monitor were wrong. Mike Callahan knew this the way a mechanic knows an engine is misfiring—by sound, by feel, by twenty-two years of knowing exactly what every machine in the Brooklyn coal plant was supposed to do. The monitor sat in the corner of the control room, a World War II-era device that had been installed to track atmospheric...
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