Free Paragaea by Chris Roberson

new-fallen snow. The ancient man spoke to them in a language Leena could not follow, sounding much like that which Hieronymus and Balam whispered to each other when they didn't want her to hear.
    â€œThis is the magister of the institution,” Hieronymus explained, after exchanging brief words with the old man. “The head man. He says he's happy to answer any question put to him.”
    â€œAsk him, how it is you get to Earth,” Leena said while the old man looked on, smiling uncomprehendingly.
    Hieronymus translated, her sentence reduced to a few brief syllables, and the old man held forth for what seemed an eternity. Hieronymus listened carefully, nodding and making polite noises when appropriate, while Leena waited impatiently for the translation.
    â€œThe magister explains,” Hieronymus translated at length, “that Earth is a quaint belief among the indigenous peoples of the mountains and jungles to the south and west, and that many view it as a kind of otherworldly paradise, to which the beneficent will go upon their deaths. The crude peoples of the city of Drift…” At this, Hieronymus paused, and shot a harsh glance at the ancient man, who smiled beatifically. “The people of Drift in the Inner Sea speak of ‘The Other Ocean,' a supernatural abode which parallels in many ways the mythical Earth, from which bounty flows from wave and sky. Among the Pakunari of the Ogansa Valley there is a religious doctrine which—”
    â€œNo,” Leena said, shaking her head in annoyance. “Tell him I am from Earth, and that my desire only is to return.”
    Hieronymus shrugged, and translated. When he had finished, the magister looked at her with something like pity clouding his features. He made a sign in the air, muttered a few words, turned, and walked away.
    Leena looked from the retreating magister to Hieronymus and back again.
    â€œChto? What? What did he said?”
    Hieronymus looked on her with an expression torn between sympathy and amusement.
    â€œWell, you see, the magister has decided that you are insane, and said a quick prayer for your psychic well-being before departing.”

    That evening found the trio at a pub near the commercial district, where Hieronymus and Balam conducted a secretive meeting at a back table while Leena languished at the bar. The cheap spirits the barmaid poured out reminded her of the worst vodka she'd ever had, but it was slowly ushering her into a sense of numb oblivion, so Leena wordlessly motioned for a refill whenever her mug emptied.
    She was trapped on a mad world full of mad people, with no way to return. Those back in Baikonur would never know that she still lived, nor know to mourn her if she died, her life reduced to a cryptic reference hidden in a file somewhere in the cold heart of Russia. Failures were not proclaimed, as they were not conducive to the general spirit of the Soviet peoples; so the populace would never know that Vostok 7 had ever launched, much less failed. It hadn't failed, of course, but succeeded beyond the chief designer's wildest imaginings; but only Leena would ever know it.
    She slammed her fist down on the pitted wood of the bar, shouting a wordless howl of rage.
    â€œWhat troubles you, little sister?” Hieronymus asked, sliding onto the stool at her left.
    â€œShe does seem agitated, doesn't she?” Balam said, easing onto the stool at her right. He motioned for a pair of drinks.
    â€œAnd why should not I be, I think?” Leena snarled. “I am here, in this crazy place, with no way home, and no one knows the way home, so I am stuck. Should I not seem the agitated?”
    Balam took a long quaff of the mug the barmaid sat before him, and swallowed hard before erupting with a roar of laughter.
    â€œYou give up too easily,” the jaguar man said, and took another long pull of his drink.
    Leena, annoyed, looked from the large jaguar man to the slyly smiling man on her right,