Free Annabel Scheme by Robin Sloan Page A

up.
    “Too slow with payment,” wrote KingSorrow. Three stars.
    “Memories not as rich as promised,” wrote Asura83. Two stars.
    “Misrepresented health of soul,” wrote CocytusKid. One star.
    A week ago, Sebdex offered:
MY RIGHT EYE
    “Demons love eyes for some reason,” Scheme sighed.
    Maybe they’re preternaturally delicious. Like Fadi’s falafels.
    She made a little heh sound. “I’m glad you’re able to find some levity in the single saddest website that anyone has ever created.”
    Who did create this, Scheme?
    “I have no idea,” she said. “And trust me, we tried to cook up an interdimensional whois. Well, Sebastian did. He used to have a whole server set up here”—she patted her palm on the landing—“and a cable that ran through the woods. But Ethernet didn’t go that far, so he had to build little repeater stations every so often, and squirrels would always turn them into nests and chew through—” She caught herself. The smile that had been growing on her face vanished. “The point is, I have no idea. But I feel sorry for every single person who’s ever found it.”
    In exchange for his eye, Sebdex had stated simply: “I want my quantum computer back.”
    “No,” Scheme said. “No, no, no.”
    Scheme, were we part of this?
    “No. Just a coincidence. Fucking. Sebastian.”
    Finally, we came to Sebdex’s most recent offer. It was brand new, posted last night. The offer:
THE SOUL OF FADI AZER
    Sebdex had come a long way from his left pinkie toenail. There was a little animated fire icon next to the listing; apparently, Fadi’s soul was a hot commodity. The reward was simple. Sebdex wrote: “I want to live in the best of all possible worlds.” A demon named AngelusNovus had agreed to the trade. Its icon was a cartoon face with curly hair.
    Scheme didn’t speak. She was scowling, and her lips curled up as if she’d smelled something terrible.
    Scheme, can he do that? Sell Fadi’s soul?
    “You can offer whatever you want, if you can get your hands on it,” she said. She slammed her laptop shut. “Let’s go.”
    Far below, the streets were sparkling in the deepening blue of dusk. Here on the hilltop, the dark trees were bending in the wind.
    There was a man in the woods.
    Scheme—
    Beyond the fence, just at the edge of the treeline. A dark outline, just barely darker than the scratchy darkness surrounding it. An outline with the suggestion of a jacket and a strange hat.
    Scheme. Jack Zapp is here.
    “What?”
    He’s on the path. Just inside the trees.
    “I don’t see anything,” she said, squinting. I turned my eyes up, all the way to maximum sensitivity, until San Francisco was burning like the surface of the sun and the woods were a field of blue-green fuzz—and I could see him clearly. He was walking out in the open, coming towards the Scepter.
    He’s coming, Scheme. I don’t know how he got here, but he’s coming.
    “I still don’t see anything,” she said.
    He was like a dog that wouldn’t stop following us. A dead dog. He came through the fence—walked straight through it—and I could see him on normal settings now. He was mostly transparent. His jacket was in tatters and he had cuts on his hands and head. Apparently it wasn’t just a game for Jack Zapp.
    He stopped just inside the fence and looked up at the Scepter. I zoomed in on his face; the expression there was sad and puzzled. Something was different. I didn’t like it.
    Then he disappeared.
    Scheme swung out onto the ladder. The wind was wailing; it tore at her coat and roared in my ears.
    Scheme, what if he’s waiting for us down there?
    “Then it’s a good trap,” she said, “because there’s no place to go but down there.” Down she went, rung by rung, back to the surface of planet earth.

STUDIO S/A
    We were almost to the bottom when, on a hunch, I connected to the wavering UCSS-experimental network and loaded up Doctor Faustus again.
    There, on the front page. The most recent listing,