Datlow, Ellen (ed) - Digital Domains / Датлоу, Эллен (ред) - Цифровые домены [2010, epub, ENG]

Thirteen Phantasms / Тринадцать призраков short story by James P. Blaylock Mr. Goober's Show short story by Howard Waldrop Get a Grip short story by Paul Park The Girl Detective / Девушка-детектив novelette by Kelly Link Pansolapia short story by Jeffrey Ford Harbingers novelette by Severna Park Frankenstein's Daughter short story by Maureen F. McHugh The Pottawatomie Giant / Гигант Поттаватоми novelette by Andy Duncan What I Didn't See / То, чего я не увидела short story by Karen Joy Fowler Daughter of the Monkey God short story by M. K. Hobson Tomorrow Town novelette by Kim Newman There's a Hole in the City / Сквозь дыру в нашем городе short story by Richard Bowes All of Us Can Almost ... short story by Carol Emshwiller You Go Where It Takes You / По воле волн short story by Nathan Ballingrud Russian Vine short story by Simon Ings

The woman of the palace, Vashmena, moves with the grace of the hornbills hunting in a sunset lake. Her black gown, like melting night, is studded with chips of quartz that catch the light of the torches and recreate the heavens. She is deep in meditation—now pacing, now swaying slightly, now standing still. When at rest, it is impossible to tell if she is breathing. The only signs that she is more than a statue are the twitch of a nostril and a quivering at the ends of her silken black hair. Then, like an illusion, she moves—slow as thick mist rolling – wide, arcing arm strokes and high, backward steps. She falls through space where speed has lost all meaning, and holds her long middle fingers curled to her palms. When she lands, back into perfect stillness, it is as if she has never moved at all. Behind her green eyes roars an iron colored ocean. The waves are mountains and the troughs quick trips to hell. The sky is the color of dirt and the wind has a voice. “Sleep,” it howls at the men lashed to the rigging of a lone, double masted ship. Nothing could be more frightening to them than its exquisite elocution, for its command is the voice of the woman they saw dance in the courtyard at Pansolapia. It follows them down beneath the waves, swamping their thoughts as the brine bursts their lungs. Their long hair rises up in wavy points toward the distant storm as the ship drifts into darkness. All hands grin. All hands stare at the woman in black, now moving like an eel, now posing like a rock upon a rock. . . .