Dawnlight Gleams on a Droplet of Poison

The scorpions danced at the gates of Tuad'hi, as they danced every morning when the Tail rose with the sun. Black and shining, it hovered overhead, poised to strike at the city's heart.

"It is a matter of great curiosity among your people, Professor," said Lufhal, tugging at his sand-mask, "whether the tail is a creature or a part of the land, a foe or a friend. But we who live in its shadow know better than to ask."

Professor Clarke swallowed and told himself his dry throat was due to heat. The scorpions clacked their pincers and danced on.

Stonecutting

He checked the pots when he came in from digging. They'd need a good, deep hole for the transplant. Set down some serious roots.

The first pot contained a chip of glass and nothing more. The second, a twist of wire. Both sat stubbornly unchanged in their rich loam. The third pot, however, brought a smile to his sweat-stained face. The chip of concrete had swollen, grown rectangular. He could see the first budding partition of an internal wall.

Outside his crude hut, the trees loomed close, but he ignored them. The city would come back.

He'd plant it himself.

Flesh of Stone, Bones of Iron

A lot of murders don't ever get solved. It's just part of the cost of civilization and industry, the side effects of having so many people in one place at one time and accomplishing everything that we accomplish. The city is alive, in a way.

The city is killing them.

The others shrug it off. They can't stop it, and so they don't try. I tried to save people, for a while. Medicine, security, legislation; nothing addressed the underlying problems.

There is one way to achieve justice, an old way. The only problem is: how do you kill a city?

Development

When the first rebar poked up through the turf, only old Pickles noticed. Nobody paid the dog any mind at first.

By the time everyone gathered around the site, the first webbing of new-grown concrete was just visible.

“Reckon it’s a stripper,” said Cornelius. “I’ll fetch m’tractor.”

Knocking it down didn’t do much. Neither did weed-killer, fire, or the barrel of hydrochloric from the old plant. It just grew. Soon, even the tractor couldn’t make a dent.

One morning, everybody sighed. They put on their name-tags and pastel polo shirts, and they all trooped into the waiting stores. Pickens hid under his porch and howled.